


The Heart of a Dying Star

by layersofart (layersofsilence), velleities



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, But not a Stardust AU, Canon amputation, Canon-Typical Violence, Elements from Stardust, Fairy Tale Elements, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, POV Wanda Maximoff (minor), Physics What Physics, Post-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-21 00:03:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16148357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/layersofsilence/pseuds/layersofart, https://archiveofourown.org/users/velleities/pseuds/velleities
Summary: As ancient legends have it, mighty magical weapons can be forged in the heart of a dying star.Wanda, driven by her desire to avenge her brother’s death and backed by Hydra and their secret plans, uses ancient magic to knock a star down from the sky.Halfway across the land, Steve, the Captain of the Avengers Guard, finds a fallen star named Bucky.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [CapBB 2018](https://cabigbang.tumblr.com/), with beautiful art by the talented and generous [layersofsilence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/layersofsilence/pseuds/layersofsilence) and [gassadaarts](http://gassadaarts.tumblr.com/). Thank you for the wonderful collaboration and kindness <3.
> 
> Twenty donuts and a huge amount of gratitude to my alpha reader, Dennis, who spotted plot holes and diligently reminded me that distances are supposed to be kept consistent, that seasons are a thing even if I kept forgetting, and who consistently pointed out things that didn’t make sense.
> 
> Infinite gratitude to the amazing, kind and thorough [lbswasp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbswasp/pseuds/lbswasp) and [moderapoppins](http://moderapoppins.tumblr.com/) for the beta-reading, special thanks to Jordan and [toffeebucky](https://toffeebucky.tumblr.com/) for their help. Big hugs and a plate of desserts to [hantumomo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hantumomo/pseuds/hantumomo) who kindly let me borrow her naming of Steve’s horse.
> 
> [layersofsilence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/layersofsilence/pseuds/layersofsilence) art: [Here](https://layersofsilences.tumblr.com/post/178622492522/art-masterpost-for-buckities-s-lovely-fic-the) (embedded in chapters 1 and 2)  
> [gassadaarts](http://gassadaarts.tumblr.com/) art: [Here](http://gassadaarts.tumblr.com/post/178612375532/fallen-star-and-palm-painted-by-gassada-for-the) (embedded in chapter 1)
> 
> As always, come cry with me [on Tumblr](http://buckities.tumblr.com).

 

 Perched upon the highest cliff of the Mount of Sorrow, Wanda looks up at the silver and blue stars speckling the night. Strong winds batter her dress, straining against the shawl that’s wrapped around her shoulders. She tucks the tangled strands of her hair behind her ears, and clutches tighter at the round stone resting in her palm.

 For years she’s studied the lore, the heedings and writings of witches that lived long before her; witches now turned to ash, forgotten all but in the ruminations and schemas that they left behind. For years she’s let the knowledge seep inside her bones, and settle into the deepest creases of her mind, encouraging it to become part of her soul, all for this one night, this moment; this chance to bring justice to her brother’s untimely death.

 The Constellations of the Centaur and the Hydra overhead shine brilliant and uninterested. It would be befitting to pick a star from the Hydra, the namesake of the admittedly questionable circle of individuals that took Wanda in after her hometown’s plight, and gave her the means to make it here, now. The thought brings a slow half-smile on her face, but she dismisses it. It’s not a night for needless risks. She trains her eyes on her chosen star, gleaming separate and brighter than all the others, in the far edge of the Constellation of the Wolf. Her small stone feels inordinately heavy in her hand. She folds the ragged shawl tighter around her, barely believing what she is about to attempt– no; what she is about to _do_. She won’t fail.

 She can’t fail.

 “What’s taking so long?”

 Wanda glances over her shoulder at Brock’s rough voice, his demanding tone making her clench her teeth. His heavy footsteps scatter soil and grit across the rocky ground. Wanda straightens, leveling a steady look at him as he reaches her side.

 “I have to be sure,” Wanda says, her accent prominent as she raises her voice over the whistling wind. “We need a clear point, a star that burns strong, if it’s to survive the fall.”

 Brock’s eyes drift upwards, onto the gems that dot the canvas of the night. His face is schooled into something sober and knowledgeable, when in truth he knows little about the proceedings.

 It’s an unholy thing, what they are about to do; Mother Moon will not be happy.

 “You need to forge the weapon in the heart of a dying star,” Wanda reminds. “It cannot die in the journey downwards. This is our only chance, I cannot attempt it again.”

 Brock bristles. He conceals his uncertainty almost successfully, but barely tries to mask his impatience. He glances at his men, standing back at a secure distance. Their hollow, worn-out faces look grotesque under the light of the unsuspecting celestial entities.

 “Where will it land?” Brock asks. His fingers curl and uncurl restlessly around the handle of the cudgel hanging from his belt.

 “I told you that I don’t know that,” Wanda replies, irritation seeping into her voice. “I cannot predict its trajectory. I can only ensure that it will fall” –or so she hopes– “that it will survive the fall, and that I will be able to navigate us to its direction.”

 Brock huffs out an exhale. “But if it shoots down halfway across the world–”

 “Then we will go get it,” Wanda says levelly. “It’s the best we can do.”

 Brock rakes a hand through his hair. He clearly wants to argue, but swallows down the words before they spill out of his lips. A vein jumps aggressively on his neck, but he is well aware that any argument is useless. He juts his chin toward the sky. “Go on then.”

 Wanda tips her head back and gazes at her star. She wonders if she should offer an apology, but it’s far too late for such sentimentalities, and part of her thinks that maybe she doesn’t deserve forgiveness. She brings her hand close to her lips, breathing into the stone her intent. Eyes trained above, she whispers to it words so ancient and strange that they feel bitter and forbidden on her tongue. Pressing her mouth into a tight line, her heart filled with determination and remorse, Wanda pulls her arm back and takes aim.

 She hurls the small stone at the sky, and waits.

~*~

 A bump creates a tremor creates a shake.

 Before the star knows what’s happening, before he recognizes the sensation as touch, he’s falling, powerless as though invisible strings are cut loose to eject him out of space. In an eternal moment and a short infinity, he breaks through Earth’s exosphere, descending in a mad course into a land that’s coming ever closer.

 Elements of the cosmos stitch together into a form that cries out a scream.

~*~

 The crickets stop.

 Steve stiffens. Unease travels up his spine, the lack of the familiar sound disconcerting. He looks behind his shoulder at his horse, Pony, named thus in a fit of whimsy and silliness, but the weary animal grazes idly beside Steve’s shield, weapons and his various bags. Steve pulls his hands out of the lake and wipes the water off against his pants. His scratches and his bruised knuckles are oddly bright under the night; the lake sports a green hue when a moment ago it was black and opaque, and Steve frowns, certain that he has not lost track of the full moon dates.

 He tilts his head toward the sky in bemusement. A smile stretches on his lips as he detects the apparent source of the unexpected light– a falling star, a tail of stunning blue-white and white glimmer trailing its descent unto the land.

 Steve shifts closer to the lake, huffing a little at himself and his jumpiness, shaking his head to get rid of nursery rhymes that murmur about wishes upon fallen stars. He cups his palms to splash cool water on his face, washing away a long day of battle and travelling. Returning home to the Ironshield Stronghold alongside Steve’s friend and fellow warrior Sam would have been quicker, more sensible after a fight with poisonous spiders gone rabid due to a young fae’s folly. Still, Steve chose the scenic route, the chance to visit his reclusive friends at the small village of Asgard too tempting to ignore, the gates of it always open to Steve by invite of the village’s Lord, Thor.

 A pearly ghostly gown unfolds over the surface of the lake, glowing stronger with every passing second. Animals previously hidden or unseen scurry away, fleeing the openness of the small clearing and shying into the shelter of the surrounding trees. A whooshing, rumbling noise floods the space and Pony neighs, hooves fearfully stomping on the ground as he makes a hasty retreat for the grove. White light washes down the clearing, illuminating every tree, every small rock and pebble as the night turns into unnatural and ruthless day.

 Steve’s eyes dart toward the sky, heart seizing as his mouth drops open in a gasp. The falling star –it can only be the falling star, improbably still going, still burning– shoots at a speed too impossible for Steve to track or fathom, straight toward the clearing, toward the lake–

 Toward Steve.

 Steve scrambles backwards, palms scraping on the gritty ground as heat builds up around him. The whooshing becomes louder, palpable, a pressure that constricts Steve’s lungs and blocks his hearing. Steve squints his eyes shut against the blinding whiteness and throws a shielding arm over his face. He curls into himself as the fiery ball propels into the clearing, wildly wondering if this is how he goes. Flames seem to permeate his jacket and his shirt, to lick his skin and slither in his veins. His bones rattle at the vibrations that shake the very atoms of the air. For a split second there is nothingness and everything at once, the end of all and their rebirth in convergence, and then–

 A splash.

 A fizzle.

 The dark.

 The crickets chirp.

 Steve holds his breath and peers out through half-closed eyelids. All is calm again; night has returned upon the clearing, though spots still dance in Steve’s vision and the residual warmth lingers on his exposed skin.

 Steve feels a little silly, rolled up like a frightened hedgehog. He pushes himself up from the ground and looks out at the ripples on the lake. Bubbles and mud rise to the surface, fast and repeatedly. Steve moves closer cautiously, to see; to know.

 In a frantic burst, a man breaks through the lake.

 He gasps, the sound loud and desperate. He sinks back under and resurfaces, one arm thrashing as he attempts to cling on to sheer water. He tries to breathe and chokes instead, wheezes and coughs before the lake swallows him again.

 Action bypasses thought; Steve breaks into a run, feet wading through water as he steps inside the lake. The lakebed in deep waters is strewn with jagged rocks, and Steve slows down once he’s in waist-deep to avoid sudden plunges and collisions. He swims toward the man’s last point of resurface, blinking furiously the watery dirt out of his eyes. He takes a breath and dives in, blindly fumbling for some part of the man to get a hold of. His fingers close around cloth and Steve grips it, persisting when the man lurches and twists to escape Steve’s grasp. Steve pulls him near and hauls him upwards, lungs straining with the need to breathe.

 They hit the surface with winded gasps. The man chokes again, splutters and heaves. Steve holds him close, squinting his eyes shut and opening them wide as he tries to see.

 “’S okay,” he rasps to the mop of dark hair that’s shuddering close to his nose. “’S okay, I have you.”

 The man keeps still as Steve takes them both toward the shore, a weight against his side that emanates tension. They reach the shallow waters and stagger onwards, dragged down by clothes that are soaked wet. Steve steps on dry land first and uncoils his fist from the man’s shirt, nudging him toward the shore with a hard push. Steve himself bends forward, palms propped against his knees and heart pounding, the sound as loud as a discordant beating drum inside his ears. The man scurries away, stumbling in his haste to establish distance, as though Steve didn’t just save him from near drowning. Steve shakes his head, droplets of water clinging on his hair flying around him as he tries to regulate his breathing.

 “What did you do?”

 Steve looks up at the raspy, harsh voice, so low that it might as well be a whisper. He turns to face the man–

  _The star_ , his brain supplies as his breath stutters and his slowing down heart kicks back into a frenzied rhythm. He _is_ a man, but he is also strangely ethereal. His clothes, mere shirt and trousers, threadbare and wet, give off the slightest shimmer as though they’re sewn by the essence of the moon. His frame is similar to Steve’s, if somewhat slimmer. His pale skin glows, tiny specks of stardust etched along his cheeks, clavicle and his hands, glimmering dully under Steve’s awed gaze; a trick of the light to unsuspecting eyes, the twinkling of the stars in human form for those that know. His dark long hair, plastered against his face and neck, gleams with a faint blue hue around the edges, seemingly backlit by a multitude of candles nearly burnt out. Intense gray-blue eyes hypnotize Steve and send tingles down his spine, a siren’s song that keeps him locked in place, rendering any thoughts other than ‘He is beautiful’ impossible.

 Reality strikes quickly, breaking in through Steve’s hazed senses: the man is injured– a pool of blood smears his left side, likely from the arm that he doesn’t seem to ever move. His mesmerizing eyes pin Steve in fear and hate, lips parted as he struggles to take in breaths. His clenched jaw and posture on the defense show him ready to fight tooth and claw– _for_ _what_ Steve doesn’t know, and the _against whom_ is sorely misplaced.

 Steve stands up straight, palms out in reassurance and surrender as he takes a tentative step toward the man. “Are you–” He falters, swallowing down his incredulity at the words about to leave his mouth. “You don’t happen to be a star?”

 “ _Why did you do it?_ ” the man yells, his face contorted as though he is about to cry.

 Steve takes another step forward, and aborts anything further when the man backtracks in response. “I didn’t do anything,” he says evenly. “I just saw you fall.” He waits a beat, letting the information sink, then asks, “What happened?”

 The man’s eyes crinkle in disbelief. “Someone shot me down from the sky is what happened!” he shouts, voice cracking under the volume. “Someone used _ancient magic_ ” –he scowls, expression souring, his statement the vilest thing in his existence– “to knock me down, and I need to _go_ , I need to go back _up_!” He gestures violently toward the sky. The abrupt movement makes his torso turn, disturbing his left arm from its still state; a cry of pain escapes his throat, startling him and cutting his words short. “Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath. He looks down at the injury, teeth digging in his lower lip as he takes in his arm’s state. He blinks, eyes shining in anguish, and drops heavily down on his knees, uttering another cry at the jostling motion, that he follows with a resigned moan. “Fuck,” he repeats, running his hand over his face. He huffs out a loud breath and scrubs tear tracks under his eyes before they reach his cheeks. He shoots Steve a dirty look when he catches him watching.

 Steve clears his throat awkwardly. “I thought,” he starts sheepishly, “I thought a star would be somehow different, more… rocky? Gaseous?” He clamps his mouth shut as the dirty look turns murderous. He chances a small step forward, encouraged when the man doesn’t recoil. “It wasn’t me,” Steve says earnestly. “I didn’t do it. I don’t know magic, and I don’t know anyone that does. But I can help you.”

 The man regards him silently.

 “I’m Steve.” Steve takes another step forward. “Captain of the Avengers Guard of the Ironshield Stronghold,” he elaborates, lest it means anything to the man. Rationally it shouldn’t, but rationally _a star_ shouldn’t be speaking Steve’s language either, or any language, or have a human form at all; clearly Steve’s rationality isn’t on par with what is real and true. It is a land of mystery and magic, of the improbable and the impossible; it’s Steve’s own folly to not expect likewise from the sky. “We keep the peace, fight against forces that threaten justice,” he explains in a short introduction. “You’re safe now.” He closes the distance between them and kneels down, his gaze gentle as he ducks to catch the man’s eyes. “Your arm. You’re hurt. May I see?”

 The suggestion sets the man on high alert. He takes a sharp breath, readying for a fight, a breath that he holds in as he assesses Steve. He must see something, the reassurance or sincerity that he seeks, or maybe he just doesn’t see any other option; he deflates, pressing his lips in a grimace of sorrow. “I hit something,” he says, his voice quivering. “Down in the lake.”

 Steve nods. “I can help.” He points at the man’s left arm. “May I?”

 The man pouts miserably, but nods. Steve crouches closer. The space around the man is considerably warmer, although the shimmer on his skin and clothes has subsided somewhat. His eyes track Steve’s moves like a feral cat that’s prepared to pounce, but Steve ignores the stare, gently touching the torn fabric of the man’s sleeve. The cloth feels silky against Steve’s fingertips, the sensation baffling as it looks like canvas.

 Steve shifts aside the fabric, staining his hand with blood. The man hisses in pain.

 Steve winces. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m going to– I’ll rip this, all right?”

 The man doesn’t protest, just braces himself against the motion. Steve rips the sleeve in two as lightly as possible, coming to a halt when the man’s quickening breathing sounds close to a sob. He parts the cloth open to inspect the wound and instantly wishes that he hadn’t. His stomach revolts at the mangled mess that the man’s arm has become. The blood doesn’t faze Steve, nor does the extensive bruising that points to possible internal bleeding. It’s not even about the things that shouldn’t be protruding but abrasively do so– Steve is no stranger to wounds and hardships. It’s the shape of it that’s wrong, as though parts of the bones have broken up and shifted underneath the skin, probably tearing up and damaging nerves, ligaments and muscles– though Steve’s knowledge of anatomy leaves much to be desired.

 He clears his throat and swallows down the nausea, letting his hands drop to his side. “I’m heading to Asgard,” he says. “It’s a village off the beaten path, beside the mountains at the northwest end of the Daffodil Trail. I have friends there, skilled friends, they can help. I can’t.” He shifts on his feet. “This is beyond what I can fix, but you can come with me. You _should_ come with me,” he adds, hoping that he conveys the urgency of the man’s state without scaring him. “You can ride my horse. It’s about half a day’s walk away. All right?”

 The man nods, his brow knitted in despondence.

 Steve walks quickly to his stash of bags. He tips two fingers underneath his tongue and whistles, calling Pony to come back from the grove. Rummaging, he finds a clean shirt and absently tugs at it, thinking. Making the man change into it out of his own wet clothes might worsen his already severe injury. As Pony cautiously trots back to the clearing, Steve presses his lips together and settles on his imminent proposition.

 “I’m going to try wrapping your arm steady with this,” he says when he walks back to the man. He falls back down on one knee, unfolding the shirt to demonstrate. “Minimize movement, give you some comfort.” He licks his lips, heart wavering under the man’s dejectedly expectant gaze. “It’s going to hurt when I do it.”

 The man holds Steve’s eyes for one long second, then tilts his head up to the sky. The stars shine on, indifferent to the earthly plight one of their own has befallen. “Everything hurts,” the man remarks, in so small a voice that Steve barely hears it.

 Steve allows for a soft smile. “You did just plunge into a freezing lake from– the Milky Way, apparently,” he says lightly, “so.” He crouches closer, positioning himself within reach to loop the shirt around the man’s arm. “Ready?”

 The man nods curtly.

 Steve wraps the shirt around the man’s shoulder. He shifts to brace his feet against the ground and lifts the man’s forearm, gentle as possible.

 The man screams, an agonized sound that pierces through the quiet. His legs kick out in reflexive protest, flimsy shoes scuffling on the ground. His eyelids flutter as he sucks in winded breaths. Steve presses the man’s arm against his ribcage, in position to be wrapped inside the shirt. The man gasps in a stuttering sob and Steve looks sharply at him, half-thinking that he might be choking. A tremble shakes his body and his eyes roll backwards, head lolling to the side as he loses consciousness. Steve catches him, steadies his head on Steve’s own shoulder to prevent his fall. He waits a second to ascertain that the man is passed out, then carefully lies him down and makes quick work of his wrap, pulling the shirt against the man’s left arm and tightly knotting the two sleeves against his other side.

 Mission accomplished, Steve darts to his bags and grabs a vial of smelling salts. He hurries back, drops to the man’s side and pushes the vial under the man’s nose, forcing him to inhale the pungent scent. He pats his hand against the man’s pale cheek. “Hey.” He slides a hand under the man’s neck, tilting his head a little so that he can breathe in more of the salts, then sets him back down on the ground to pat his cheek again. “Hey, come on.”

 The man stirs, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he comes to. He looks at Steve through glassy eyes, coughing on an inhale of the salts.

 “You’re all right,” Steve says, pulling back to give him space.

 The man glances at his wrapped left arm and swallows dryly. He props himself up on his right elbow but he wobbles, unable to sustain his weight. He coughs, then shudders and dry-heaves, each breath he takes clearly a feat of labor.

 Steve shifts to support the man’s back. “You’re all right,” he repeats, whispered in the man’s ear.

 The man’s ragged inhale demonstrates the opposite. He draws back and blinks at Steve with bloodshot eyes, utterly lost and seeking answers.

 Steve can do little more than stroke his back and wait for the nausea and the trembling to abate. He sets to making a small fire, hoping to keep both of them warm in the late fall, and to speed up the drying of their clothes. Once the sparks catch, he brings forth bread and water and nudges at the shivering man to come close. Star or not, he is still susceptible to human plights, and Steve would be remiss if he just let him catch a cold on top of– everything. Cross-legged and weary, Steve watches as the man stares at the red and orange flames. Shadows dance wildly on his gaunt face; parts of his skin that catch the light look almost iridescent.

 Steve gives himself a small shake and cuts off a hefty chunk of bread. He reaches out his hand in offering, but the man glances at it and then away. Steve can’t muster any appetite either. He fidgets with the bread piece, spreading crumbles on the ground, awkward in the heaviness that trickles all around them like layer upon layer of molasses. In the silence, the implications of someone using magic to shoot a celestial being down the sky for reasons likely less than noble hit right home; they make Steve’s stomach churn and his mind spin in circles.

 “Can you go back?” he asks the man. “Up to the sky?”

 “No,” the man replies, eyes trained on the flames.

 “If it was magic that brought you down,” Steve tries, “then maybe–”

 “No,” the man repeats tiredly. “There’s no way.”

 Steve presses his lips together in a thin line. “I’m sorry.” In the absence of an answer, he rests his chin on his palm and asks, “What can I call you?”

 The man lifts his head and stares at Steve blankly.

 “Do you have a name?” Steve clarifies.

 The man continues to stare, impassive and quiet. Steve feels as though he’s being assessed and comes up short.

 “Choose one,” he ploughs on. “You’ll need a name if you are to live on land. You’ll _want_ one, something to anchor you to who you are.”

 The man’s eyebrows lower as he digs his teeth in his bottom lip. “My brothers and sisters, they…” His eyes flicker at the sky, then swiftly dart down to the ground. “In my creation, they once or twice referred to me as Buchanan.”

 Steve studiously dismisses the fact that _brothers and sisters_ probably means _other stars_ , and decisively doesn’t question how stars communicate with each other. “Just once or twice?” he asks instead, even though his voice comes out a little strained.

 The man shrugs, wincing at the jostling of the gesture. “Names are not needed when you live in Mother Moon’s realm.”

 “You’re going to hear plenty of them here. In _Mother Earth’s_ realm,” Steve adds with a fleeting smile. “Sorry,” he says quickly at the man’s glare. “I’m sorry.” He lets out a sigh and rubs a hand over his face. “Well, Buck, we have a long way to go, but if you need sleep, we can allow for a few hours.” They can’t, not really, but fainting spells can cause exhaustion and denying the man a rest doesn’t seem right.

 The man crinkles his nose. “Buck?”

 Steve huffs out a chuckle. “Another thing we do in Mother Earth’s realm,” he says, the teasing term rolling off of his tongue before he can stop it. “Nicknames, pet names. My actual name is Steven, but I’m known as Steve. Buchanan works with Buck maybe, or– or–” he shrugs– “or Bucky.”

 “Bucky?” the man echoes with a befuddled scowl.

 “It’s friendly,” Steve says lightly.

 The man – _Bucky_ , Steve settles, the sound matching the person, fitting like puzzle pieces slotting in harmonious setting– averts his eyes to the fire, clearly confused as he is trying to work out Steve’s reasoning.

 Steve’s lips quirk into a smile. “Do you need to sleep?”

 “The stars shine throughout the night,” Bucky murmurs.

 The fire dies a few hours later, leaving behind merely ashes in a ring of rocks. Bucky has shifted and now stares out at the horizon, at the darkness that parts under the muted colors of the dawn. His skin is dull under the light of day; his hair, frizzy and tangled, retain nothing of the previous night’s glow.

 Steve pushes himself up on his feet and stretches his sore muscles until his joints crack. They’ve lingered long enough, and it’s about time that they go.

 Bucky cannot ride Pony; every attempt at climbing on him makes Bucky’s arm protest in agony. He walks with Steve on foot, treading lightly and sulking at the ground. He weaves to take cover in the shade cast by trees or in the shadows cast by Steve and Pony, shielding himself from the sunlight. It’s the first time he’s experienced the sun and Steve wishes he could offer comfort, but when he presents Bucky his shield as an umbrella, Bucky dissuades him from the notion with a glare. Steve wordlessly tries to match his pace to Bucky’s to at least provide a semi-stable refuge, for what next-to-nothing this is worth.

 “Does it hurt you?” he asks over his shoulder after what feels like hours of silence.

 Bucky looks up at Steve and blinks slowly.

 “The sun,” Steve clarifies, eyes lingering over the dark circles that stand out against Bucky’s skin, over the hollowness that’s settled on his cheeks and makes the edges of his face appear harsher. “Is it a problem?”

 “No,” Bucky croaks.

 “Are you cold? Do you need a rest?” Steve asks. “Food, some water? There’s plenty–”

 “I need to be in the sky,” Bucky says flatly. He shakes his head to flick away the hair that falls into his eyes, and stumbles his way forward, leaving Steve a few steps behind.

 Catching up with him isn’t hard. Even if Bucky so desired, he couldn’t run or even walk that fast, and he doesn’t appear inclined to do either– or anything else in the gods’ whole land. Steve passes him Pony’s reins and mills around. He gathers berries to gift to the Asgardians, trots forward to secure them in a satchel. He gathers wild flowers and herbs for Bruce, Asgard’s resident healer, who always has good use for things as such. He picks up a forget-me-not flower in good faith, jogs up to Bucky and offers him the blossom with a sheepish smile. Bucky shoots him a long, blank look and moves along, passing past Steve’s proffered hand, slowly towing Pony behind him.

 Steve catches up to him easily. “It’s a gift,” he says, twirling the stem between his fingers. “Well, not quite,” he adds, absurdly self-conscious of how small it is in the grand scheme of the concept of gift-giving. “A gesture of goodwill.”

 Bucky glares at him irritably through half-lidded eyes.

 “All right,” Steve says appeasingly. He keeps silent for the rest of the journey.

 Twilight finds them approaching Asgard. The village is visible in the short distance. Its high wooden gates stand proud and defensive down the low hill, painted in the soothing colors that seep into the sky as the sun takes his leave.

 “That’s Asgard,” Steve says, pointing at the village. “It’s secure, always has been. Some of the best warriors, the best craftsmen–”

 “I know Asgard,” Bucky interrupts hoarsely.

 Steve shoots him a curious look. “You didn’t say.”

 Bucky licks his lips, the gesture slow in his sleepless, fatigued state. “I see the land.” He shakes his head. “I _saw_ the land,” he amends. “From high up. People talked to me sometimes. And I listened.” His voice cracks and he averts his eyes, mouth twisting mournfully at his train of thought.

 Steve almost clasps Bucky’s shoulder for comfort but aborts the motion, his hunched posture and withdrawn gaze forbidding. He ploughs on and swallows down a sigh, looking forward to that much needed comfort at Asgard.

 It’s dark when they are allowed entrance in the village. The streets are quiet, the buildings full of life as people crowd inside homes and taverns, feasting after a day under the sun. Steve directs Pony to the nearest stables, frees him of the baggage and the reins. He slings everything over his shoulders and turns for Thor’s home, gently patting Bucky’s back to encourage him to follow.

 Thor must have noticed the gates open and close because he meets the newcomers halfway down the main street. The gravel under his feet crunches loudly as he approaches, and a quick, broad grin settles on his face. He makes a booming sound akin to a laugh and engulfs Steve in a hug, instantly lifting Steve’s spirits with his warmth.

 “My friend!” Thor exclaims, beaming as he pulls back and pushes thin braids and long hair out of his face.

 “Thor,” Steve replies in greeting, his own lips stretched into a grin.

 “Welcome,” Thor says, rubbing Steve’s arm.

 He turns to Bucky, who silently watches the proceedings. Under the crescent moon, his skin is back to a faint glow, even if it doesn’t quite reach his hair or clothes as the previous night. Steve breathes out an exhale of relief; this will make all of his explaining easier than trying to convince Thor that this man is actually, _really_ , a star that’s fallen from the sky.

 Bucky looks up at Thor through his eyelashes, every bit like a resigned man waiting for the verdict of his fate.

 “This is Bucky, he…” Steve halters. Glow or not, it’s still hard; it might be the oddest introduction he’s ever had to make. “He is a star, shot down from the sky. I saw it happen,” he adds, for credibility’s sake.

 Steve’s own misconceptions on celestial bodies aren’t as widespread as he would think, but merely a product of his apparently limited imagination. Thor doesn’t miss a beat, accepting Steve’s statement at face value, eyes wide as he holds himself straighter and gazes at Bucky in awe.

 “A child of the moon!” Thor marvels. He grips Bucky’s limp uninjured palm into a strong handshake, then rests his other hand upon it for good measure. “I am infinitely glad to have you here, my friend,” he says earnestly. “You’re very welcome in our village.”

 Bucky regards him blearily, a cat assessing the intentions of an overexcited, overly appreciative golden retriever.

 “His arm is in a bad state,” Steve says, as though the wrapped shirt and the patches of blood that soak through it aren’t telltale signs of that. “I hoped that Bruce could look him over while we talk.”

 “Indeed he can,” Thor replies, initial reverence giving way to solemn crinkles at the edges of his eyes. With one last pat, he lets go of Bucky’s hand. “Come. There is much to discuss.”

 Bucky is neither willing nor reluctant to follow the mild-mannered Bruce to the upper floor of Thor’s house once they are all gathered. It might be sheer trust or lack of options that make Bucky so compliant, but Steve tips the scales toward his having reached a negative nirvana of not caring. Thor’s housekeeper takes her leave to stow Steve’s offering of berries and cook a meal for them. Steve sets his shield and weapons down against the wall, then drops to a chair. He stares soberly at the shadows from the hearth’s fire as they chase each other around the room.

 Thor folds his arms and taps a finger on his lips. “Shot down from the sky, you say?” he says after a long pause.

 “By ancient magic,” Steve confirms, propping an elbow on the table. “”Or so he said.” He lets out a shuddering breath, raking a hand through his hair. “I saw it happen, Thor. I _saw_ it,” he repeats tersely. “I saw the star fall, plunge into the lake, and I saw _him_ coming out of it, struggling to stay afloat. And you _saw_ him, he– he shimmers _._ ”

 “I don’t doubt your words, Steve,” Thor says. “Folklore of my village tells of men of the sky that came to walk among us, to live as mortals and die as them. In those dark days of–” he sighs– “of ancient magic. But that is ill news. For long I’ve heard tidings from my scouts, received worrisome news from my ravens, that Hydra is once again afoot.”

 Steve’s fingers coil into fists. He forces them open, breathing in deep. “Hydra?” he manages, his voice low, as though the name said aloud will summon them close.

 “Rumors have it that they are planning something big. Something foul. This could be it,” Thor says.

 “What would they do with him?” Steve asks.

 Soft, quick footsteps down the stairs halt the discussion. Both men turn their attention to Bruce, harried as he descends to the ground floor.

 Wringing the hem of his shirt fitfully, Bruce gives Steve a tight-lipped smile that resembles a wince. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Steve, this isn’t good. It doesn’t look good. We have to–” he glances at Thor, shakes his head. “The bones in his arm are shattered, the blood vessels are shredded, there’s no way to set it back. We could even be looking at an imminent infection– it could kill him if that happens. I don’t even know how he made it _this far._ ” He heaves out an exhale. “We have to– We have to amputate. As soon as possible.”

 Steve startles, even though he’s already seen the extensive damage. He presses his palm against the hard table, a grounding point in this escalating mess. “Cut off his arm,” he clarifies.

 “Yes,” Bruce replies. “Immediately.”

 “Does he know?” Steve asks stiffly.

 “No, I didn’t – I didn’t…” Bruce shakes his head again. “He’s not very responsive to what’s happening, I thought maybe it’s because he doesn’t particularly know _me_. Thought it might be easier if you were there.”

 Steve doesn’t think it will be any easier, but keeps that quiet. He pushes himself up, limbs weak like liquid at the twists and turns of the night.

 “Maybe he doesn’t need to lose a limb,” Thor states contemplatively. “Maybe he can merely replace it.”

 “Right.” Bruce nods. “Right. One, there’s nothing _merely_ about that, and two, that– that is not how amputation works,” he points out, perplexed.

 “We’ll see,” Thor replies vaguely, gesturing for Steve and Bruce to follow.

 Bucky rests on the bed of Thor’s spare room, one leg folded under the other and forehead set against the window as he looks down at the village. His arm is now wrapped in a cloth much cleaner than Steve’s shirt, in a shape much neater than Steve’s hasty makeshift creation. Starlight reflects off of his face; paired with the pallor he has acquired within the last few hours, the sight reminds Steve unnervingly of grieving wraiths. Bucky stirs when the three men enter, angling toward them to take in their cautious, somber faces.

 Bruce sits at the foot of the bed. “We’ve had a little bit of a discussion,” he starts. “Truth is, you had a really bad fall, Bucky–”

 Steve shifts, unwittingly gratified. The acquired nickname was familiar to Thor but not to Bruce, to whom Bucky was vaguely mentioned as ‘the star’. Bucky chose to give Bruce the shortened form of Buchanan as his name, accepting Steve’s playful propensities.

 “And I can’t really repair your arm,” Bruce continues. “The best course of action is to remove it.”

 Bucky remains unresponsive.

 Bruce looks to Steve, wordlessly asking for cues on how to handle this reaction. Steve remains equally unresponsive, himself none the wiser. “It might come as a shock,” Bruce tells Bucky.

 “But we might be able to assist you further,” Thor offers, stepping forward. He turns to Steve. “It is said that devices mighty and magical can be forged in the heart of a dying star. I believe this is what Hydra wants, if it’s indeed Hydra that is behind this.”

 “Devices? You mean they want a weapon?” Steve guesses.

 “Yes,” Thor affirms. “Too powerful to bear anything good, much less in hands as stained as theirs.” He turns to Bucky, voice even as he explains, “Hydra are a circle of evildoers, schemers who want to see our land burn, to bring it down to its knees and dominate it as sole rulers. We stopped them once” –he glances at Steve, his fellow warrior in that vicious war of years ago–“but I fear they are planning something bigger now. To achieve it, they might go after the heart of a dying star, and he is it,” he tells Bruce and Steve, gesturing toward Bucky. “He is that heart, but fortunately he’s here and not with them.”

 Bucky tilts his head slightly, coolly assessing Thor’s words. “Hydra,” he mumbles to himself.

 “But…” Steve trails off, thoughts tangled. “But it’s a legend, it’s myth–”

 “What is a legend,” Thor cuts in, “but a story too old and too improbable to be seen as truth?” He huffs out a breath, lips tugging up into a sheepish smile. “I speak this from experience, if I were being honest. My hammer, Mjolnir…” Thor’s mighty weapon, impossible to lift by anyone but its beloved Thor, would habitually fly across plains and smash through walls at his master’s call, its disobedience of any law of physics useful in all battles that Steve and Thor have shared. “It was forged in times long gone by my ancestors, in the heart of such a dying star. They were foolish and cruel to employ such means,” he adds hastily, “but the menace of it now steers enemies away from Asgard by reputation alone, knowing that if they dare challenge us, they’ll fall.”

 “Well, the Asgardian army would also have something to do with that,” Bruce points out.

 Thor grins. “Indeed.”

 “What are you saying?” Steve asks.

 “That clearly a star’s heart possesses powers that we do not know,” Thor replies. “We could attempt to direct them into something other than the forging of a weapon. We could create an arm made out of metal, designed by our blacksmiths– and they’re the best I’ve known. Should the power of the dying star allow it, it could be fused with Bucky’s actual body, make it so that they become one. Have full use of it–”

 “But he’s not _dying_ ,” Steve remarks, jerking his hand toward Bucky.

 “He is,” Thor says placidly, “just as I am dying, just as you are. Once we’re born, we enter a path of an eventual death, so in essence, we begin dying once we start to exist.”

 Steve opens his mouth then snaps it shut, unable to form any meaningful answer.

 “That’s morbid,” Bruce says mildly.

 Thor’s lip curl into a smile. “But is it wrong?”

 Bruce lifts his shoulders. “We’re not facing something that has precedent, at least not any that we’ve seen with our own eyes. I don’t know what’s wrong and what isn’t. I can only speak in possibilities and–” he shoots a glance at Bucky– “maybe it’s possible. Maybe it’s worth a try.”

 “If I am correct in my speculations,” Thor tells Bucky, who merely blinks at him, his expression unreadable, “Hydra will come for you. They won’t stop looking. Whether you choose to take up on our risky offer of replacing a lost limb is your own choice, but I assure you that as long as you remain in Asgard, you will be safe. My people’s silence is assured, our defenses are impeccable, and you are more than welcome to stay for as long as you please.”

 “They’ll come for me,” Bucky repeats.

 “I believe that they will, yes,” Thor replies. “They’ll want to finish what they started. Sooner or later–”

 “Do it,” Bucky says.

 Three pairs of startled eyes stare at him.

 “The arm,” Bucky says flatly. “Do it.”

 “Is it really something you can do?” Bruce asks in unbridled fascination. “It’s within your power to make something made out of metal part of you?”

 Bucky shakes his head, uncertain. “I don’t know. I don’t know that I have _any_ power, or that if I do, I can use it for the purpose you’re proposing. I don’t–” He shrugs one shoulder, the gesture slow. “I don’t even know if giving up that kind of power– I don’t know that I’d survive it.”

 “No, _no_ ,” Bruce protests, flashing a warning look at Thor. “We wouldn’t let that happen, we’d stop it–”

 “ _How_? How would we stop it?” Steve remonstrates; he distrusts the idea more with every passing moment, clinging to logic despite the magic all around him. “It’s _heat_ , he’s a source of _heat_. You suggest we douse him in water?”

 Bucky levels a weary look at Steve. “There’s really not much left to lose.”

 There is, and there is plenty, plenty that Bucky hasn’t seen yet, hasn’t lived. The resignation in Bucky’s features makes the fervent words die in Steve’s throat.

 “I’ll notify my men,” Thor says. He clasps his hand over Bruce’s shoulder. “You get everything ready for the procedure.”

 Bruce nods. Thor takes his leave, his footsteps echoing down the wooden staircase, door loudly slamming shut behind him as he heads out. Bucky tilts his head up to the sky, and Steve…

 Steve isn’t going anywhere any time soon.

 The amputation is performed on that same night. Steve hovers outside the room, fitfully dozing in chairs that make his neck and back ache, disinclined to leave although his presence is useless and unneeded. Once the procedure is complete, the unconscious Bucky is dressed in clean clothes and given ample supply of pain-reducing pills and potions on his nightstand. Steve deems it somewhat silly to remain in Thor’s quarters to watch over the newly one-armed man and his heavily bandaged left side, and pays for a room at Asgard’s inn. He sleeps for a few hours, and wakes up more exhausted than before. He changes into respectable, less battle-weary clothes, and throws himself into the buzz of village life.

 The venerable master blacksmith of the Asgardians, Heimdall, commits to making a metal arm as lifelike as possible, a manmade work of art. The process requires a good total of five days, by Heimdall’s estimation; five days of wondering, of waiting, and of Bucky.

 It’s not much of a conscious choice, but Steve lingers, spending most of his days at Bucky’s side. Deep in his gut, beating like a pulse within his pulse, a feeling mandates that he stay here. A thread woven out of off-blue starlight and iridescent stardust pulls him close to Bucky, for reasons he does not care to examine. He justifies his presence as interest, a desire to make sure that Bucky holds up well.

 Bucky does not hold up well. He does not express any liking in Steve’s company, nor any distaste towards it. He expresses little interest in anything but gazing out the window, blank and pensive during the day, mournful and bereft once night falls. His stillness provides a life model for Steve to sketch, and sketch he does, whiling away the hours.

 The silence is both comfortable and tense. Hopelessness is as tangible a feeling in the room as are the solid chairs and table, as weighty as the drapes that are never drawn. Oddly enough, that is the comfortable part– fair and expected. Tension comes in the form of missed meals, missed sleep, missed medicine that Bucky only remembers when the pain is so intense it makes him wince.

 Three days is Steve’s breaking point, the point when he can’t stand idly by anymore. He throws his sketchbook on the table, the sound so harsh and unfamiliar in the customary quiet that Bucky jumps a little. Steve grabs a bowl of blueberries, another batch of food that has been left untouched, much to the frowning of Thor’s housekeeper who takes it all a little personally. He stalks to the bed and holds it out at Bucky.

 “I don’t want it,” Bucky mumbles. His shoulders hunch at Steve’s wordless suggestion, his body looking smaller. His eyes shine, vulnerable and bluer than his usual gray-blue as his cheekbones glow under the moonlight.

 “Do you need it?” Steve asks, voice coming out more flat than what was his intention. “To survive?”

 “Yes.” Bucky flinches at the truth of his response. He drops his gaze to the blueberries, scornful as though they’ve done him wrong. Then, he lifts his eyes back at Steve, chin jutting out sourly, lips pinched in what looks like accusation. “I’m one of you now.”

 “Tough luck,” Steve says curtly. He pushes the bowl against Bucky’s chest, thrusting gently to avoid causing pain. “Eat.”

 Bucky grips it, mostly out of reflex than to humor Steve. His eyes flick helplessly from the blueberries to Steve and back, as though he doesn’t know what to do with them.

 Steve feels increasingly like a prick. He rakes his fingers through his hair, licking his lips. “I won’t pretend I understand what this is like,” he says. “I only can imagine, and my imagination has fallen short time and again. I can’t fix it, and I can’t– I don’t know how to help. Should you _tell me_ how, I’d do it in a heartbeat,” he goes on earnestly, holding Bucky’s gaze. “But you don’t, and maybe you won’t, and that’s– that’s fine,” he says through almost clenched teeth, because it’s not fine, and Steve wants to _do something_. “But I can’t let you hurt yourself when I can help it, and this–” he points at the fruit– “you need that.” He nods, as though the motion will convince Bucky, and walks back to his chair. He drops down on it and rubs a hand over his face.

 Bucky sets the bowl down on his lap and picks up a blueberry. He rolls it lightly between two fingers, absorbed as he watches the motion.

 “What can I do?” Steve tries, slumped against the chair and voice coming out weary. He almost expects Bucky to say that what he _can_ do is leave, let him recuperate in peace, spare him the preaching and the nagging– spare him his presence altogether.

 “Tell me a story,” Bucky says softly.

 Steve’s morose thoughts of his dismissal come to a halt. “A story?”

 Bucky drags his teeth over his lower lip. “A story of this land, I want to…” He takes in a slow breath. “I _need_ to understand.”

 Steve leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Understand what?”

 “Life,” Bucky replies. “The way you see it.”

 Steve regards him for a long, bemused moment, then gestures toward the blueberries, an unsubtle reminder. He folds his hands and rests his chin on top, settling in for the first story that comes to mind; a story shared with him not long ago, a story he fully intends to take creative liberties with. “When the heavy winters give way to spring and the snow melts on the Mountaintop of Limerance,” he begins, “the wild terrain provides a special herb that is particularly affinitive to healers.”

 Bucky glances at the medicine set on his nightstand, but doesn’t inquire after the extensity of the tale’s truth.

 “On the very first day of spring, interested townsfolk from every corner of the land,” Steve continues, his voice low, “meet at the foot of the mountain and hike up to the top in a fest of chatter and dances, to gather herbs that will last them for the year; herbs with stems as thin as spiders’ webs and flowers so white that they remind of the freshly fallen snow.”

 “Because they’re winter springing up in flowers,” Bucky blurts out in a mumble, then tilts his head, taken aback at his own interruption. To Steve’s surprise, pink creeps up Bucky’s cheeks, betraying his awkwardness at his reaction. Bucky counteracts or hides this by stuffing a handful of blueberries in his mouth.

 Steve bites back a smile. “In the gathering, the singing and the hubbub,” he continues, “a little boy finds a single rose, impossibly growing in the middle of the herbs. He plucks it off the ground, marvels at it, but doesn’t keep it for himself. A little girl dances her way around the herb-filled baskets, red hair flying behind her as she goes. The boy deems that she should have that rose, and presents it to her as a gift. They play together, eat lunch together, descend the mountaintop together; then they never meet again.”

 Bucky absently narrows his eyes. He pops a blueberry in his mouth, chewing slowly as he waits for Steve to resume.

 “Years later, the girl, now a woman, finds herself caught in a heavy snowstorm. She finds refuge in a cabin on a land that’s unfamiliar, and hopes that her supplies will last long enough for her survival. Amidst the howling of the wind and the incessant swirling of the snow, she hears a cry for help. She knows that whoever is out there is sure to die; she knows that if she tries to help, she might die too. But within her, she always carries the last peaceful memory of her life, the moment when a little boy gave a little girl a rose for no other reason than to make her happy; no reason but out of kindness toward someone who, in her mind, grew up to not deserve it due to the blood staining her hands. That little girl owes it to that boy to share what kindness _she_ still has left. Or maybe the blizzard just made her lose her mind,” Steve adds, lips twitching in a small smile; Bucky crinkles his nose in response. “And so she risks her life in an uneven battle with nature, to find a man half-buried under snow. She carries him inside the cabin and lays food on the table in an attempt to nurse him back to health. Among the bread, the cheeses and the preserves, she sets down the rose of her childhood, safe in a vial made out of glass, vivid and fresh as the day she received it, somehow unfettered by the passage of time.”

 A blueberry gives way between Bucky’s fingers, staining them purple with juice. He starts minutely, then dismisses it, focus turned back to Steve.

 “The man sees the rose and stirs,” Steve goes on. “A lifetime ago, he had given such a rose to a redheaded girl. Soon they both come to know this isn’t their first encounter, reunited now after countless years. ‘Why me?’ she asks him. ‘Why give your rose to me, why not keep it?’ ‘Because you were free, like wild flowers in the wind,’ the man says. ‘You were ferocious, like bulbs that push through frost and bloom despite the struggle, and I wanted to make you smile.’ And the girl,” Steve continues, “now a woman, grasps on to those words, clings to the memory of her freedom on the mountain, before the bad deeds that she was forced to do, and knows that she does not want to be alone anymore.” Steve falls back against the chair, the impact knocking a breath out of his chest. “The snowstorm howled itself out three days later. The man, the woman and the rose left the cabin together, and have remained together ever since.”

 In the silence after the happy ending, Bucky averts his eyes to the ground, gears in his mind clearly turning, but over what or to what end Steve doesn’t know. He reaches a conclusion and nods, lifting his eyes to Steve and holding out the empty fruit bowl.

 It goes like this during the following days. Bucky requests stories and Steve complies. He tells of dark elves that imprisoned a mighty warrior, of a curse that doomed him into having wings which he then used to flee from the elven territory, assemble an army and slay his captors for their foul actions. He tells the story of a mechanic, arrogant and abrasive but unsurpassably smart, that secretly built never before seen traps and weapons in his basement to thwart the clandestine schemes of his nefarious uncle, who employed their family’s legacy for evil. He tells of a human with the power of a demigod, imprisoned in a faraway land, who escaped a deadly contest, returned to his homeland with a new brother in arms and saved his people from undoubtable demise. Bucky listens, munches on any food that is provided, and never asks if the tales are true or legends, fancies of the moment or long-narrated fairy tales. They’re simultaneously all of that and none, the lives of Steve’s friends spun into something more fantastical, sprinkled with elements of the improbable, with echoes from tales long forgotten, told to Steve in his munchkin age and now niggling at the edges of his mind to be revisited. So Steve recalls, recreates and recounts, and always Bucky listens, eyes shining in the light of the moon, his skin always glowing with the barest hint of iridescence.

 On the sixth day, a falcon arrives for Steve with a letter. It lands upon Steve’s shoulder in one swift swoop, claws digging in Steve’s skin until he relieves the bird of the rolled message. The falcon flies off, cawing out an accomplished cry. The note is short, but cutting in its brevity; Tony, Avenger and mechanic extraordinaire, needs Steve in Ironshield posthaste for new armor and weapons testing. The call comes as a clenching fist around Steve’s heart. He wishes to remain in Asgard for as long as possible, especially given the uncertain outcome of Thor’s plan that will be set in motion right this night.

 Indeed this night, when the moon’s power is assumed as stronger, Bucky, Thor, Bruce and Steve mill at the back of Heimdall’s smithy, crowding curiously above the metal arm. Heimdall has allowed for movable plates to ensure potential flexibility, arranged in symmetric patterns from the shoulder blade down to the fingertips, forged out of smooth metal that gleams dully in the light of the lamps. The interior of the arm is fitted with mechanical contraptions designed by Asgard’s engineers, proverbial hooks that can presumably, optimistically mesh with and respond to Bucky’s body.

 Bucky sits while Bruce helps him undress out of his shirt and unwraps his wound. His tension is evident in the stiffness of his shoulders, his pinched lips and the tight set of his jaw. What remains of his left limb is raw and angry, and Heimdall takes care not to touch as he ensures the arm’s already correct measurements. The possibility of contact still makes Bucky flinch.

 “You can still decide against it,” Steve says, crouching at Bucky’s side. He keeps his voice low, a conversation private from the others currently discussing the logistics of their attempt.

 “I know,” Bucky murmurs.

 If Steve himself had misgivings before, the queasy expression on Bucky’s face makes him worry about the cost of the ordeal even more. He curls his hand around Bucky’s knee for someone’s comfort; in principle it is for Bucky, but Steve himself finds the contact anchoring, a tether to the present that will count in favor of Bucky’s odds of staying alive.

 It is, by all accounts, a subdued affair. The arm is to be kept in place by Heimdall in heatproof gloves, until Bucky’s star power fuses metal and body parts together.

 “Just picture the mechanical parts within the arm reaching out to blend with your nerve endings, binding with your muscles,” Bruce says. “And maybe– maybe if it’s possible, reinforce your bones to take the weight– which, I’m sure, is as light as possible,” he adds with an apologetic look at Heimdall.

 “Maybe you should have drawn a chart,” Steve says tautly.

 “I did draw a chart– circled key points and everything!” Bruce replies.

 “I still don’t know what those things _look like_ ,” Bucky says darkly.

 Bruce makes a sound of protest.

 “You were saying, ‘the scapula, the scapula’– what the hell does that look like?” Bucky growls.

 “This will hurt,” Heimdall informs, holding the metal arm to Bucky’s side.

 Bucky confirms this with a cry when the metal encloses the stump, followed by a growled, “Fuck,” and a foot stomp. The knuckles of his right hand grip the edge of the seat so hard that they turn white.

 “This is insane,” Bruce whispers to Thor and Steve, huddled together as far as possible from the potential heat surge that will unleash the star’s power.

 “A little,” Thor acquiesces.

 Heimdall takes position at Bucky’s side and holds the arm in place, ready for action. For a long surreal moment the room falls silent, eyes on Bucky and breaths baited as they all wait for something extraordinary to happen.

 Nothing does.

 Bucky shoots a dirty look at Bruce. “The fuck should I do?”

 Bruce turns to Thor, eyes wild. “Why is he asking _me_ – why–” He turns to Bucky, gesturing encouragingly with over the top motions that betray he knows little to nothing on the subject. “Channel your inner star power! Summon Mother Moon, your star friends, your stardust, the Milky Way! The– the– _this is insane_ ,” he hisses to Thor.

 “Touch the core of your being,” Thor tells Bucky confidently. “Look for it inside you, and then you will know.”

 Bucky shoots a doubtful glare at Thor, but closes his eyes, his nose crinkling in concentration. His chest rises and falls with measured breaths that soon quicken to pants. A wave of warmth spreads through the room and Bucky’s body fills with light, a shimmery cocoon that pulsates like a beating heart and grows in intensity by every second. Heimdall cranes his neck away to shield his eyes as cold white and icy blue mingle in a blast of energy and swallow the metal arm in brightness.

 The heat grows suffocating. Sweat runs down Steve’s face and neck; Thor wipes at his own forehead. Bruce inches toward the open window, trying to gulp in cooler air. Difficult as it is to look at Bucky in his blinding bubble, Steve still tries. His face is contorted, teeth bared as he lets out a heavy grunt. Heimdall cries out in shock and springs backwards, releasing the overheated metal that begins to melt off his gloves, the material not strong enough in the face of raw celestial energy. The metal arm remains in place, latched on by a power contrary to gravity.

 Bucky screams as the light turns opaque. It’s all around and within him, a cloud that shrouds him and still he screams, a wrenching sound that soon renders him hoarse.

 Steve squares his shoulders, stomach knotted under the cries. “No.”

 Bruce whips around, shielding his face with his entire forearm. “Steve!”

 “He’s burning up!” Steve shouts.

 “I think it’s working!” Bruce retorts.

 “He’s– he’s…” Steve waves his hand with a wince. _He’s all alone_.

 He moves before Thor’s “Steve!” and Heimdall’s “No!” register in his consciousness. He dashes forward and steps into the light, snapping his eyes shut against it, stopping when his boot bumps against the chair. Bucky’s heat fills up his pores and lungs, makes his skin clammy and scorching. The sensation is so unfamiliar that Steve’s body barely feels his own, as though Steve is occupying someone else’s absurd nightmare. He fumbles for Bucky’s right hand, ears muffled with thick nothingness not too dissimilar from the noiseless vacuum that he experienced at the lake, and ringing with the echoes of Bucky’s screams– but then again, he might still be screaming. Finally, _finally_ Steve finds Bucky’s fingers and grasps them, clasps Bucky’s hand in his and squeezes hard. Bucky holds on to him and squeezes back, the gesture excruciating in its tightness. Steve’s palm burns, the pain so hot that it turns icy, so deep that it makes reactionary tears run down his eyes. Saliva clamps up inside his throat, and still the star’s heat grows–

 Until it stops. Darkness replaces the light, as it had done back in that clearing, and a cool breeze breaks through the unbearable heat. Steve takes a steadying breath, lungs burned and aching, and hesitantly opens his eyes. Bucky, sweat-drenched and impossibly pale, looks down at the artificial arm that’s now firmly attached on and apparently _in_ his shoulder, lips parted in a mix of wonderment and fear. The metal melds into the skin of Bucky’s shoulder blade and collarbone; raised scars fan out like rays, shockingly red against Bucky’s now dull skin.

 In utter silence, Bucky slightly moves his metal fingers. He sucks in a breath and lifts his head, searching for Heimdall and flashing him a look of panicked awe.

 “Holy shit,” Heimdall whispers.

 “Fuck,” Bucky says faintly, and wavers.

 Steve catches him before he hits the ground, hissing and groaning as his burned palm closes around Bucky’s waist. Heimdall rushes forward and so does Thor, lowering the unconscious Bucky to the ground.

 “Oh gods,” Bruce mutters, admiring the metal arm on Bucky’s side.

 “He did it!” Thor exclaims with a grin, clasping his hand around Steve’s shoulder. “It worked!”

 Bruce drops on his knees and reaches out for Bucky’s wrist, checking his pulse. He gives a small nod and moves his fingers up to Bucky’s neck, rechecking the pulse on the artery. “We should let him rest,” he says, settling Bucky’s hand back to the ground. His eyes flicker past Steve’s loosely open hand, then dart back to it and narrow. “Steve.”

 Steve turns his hand over, reluctant to inspect his injury, not keen on dealing with it yet. His breath stutters at the mark, which is far from an injury but most definitely a scar. It’s not a burn, or if it was, it’s healed, turned into something similar to a rough sketch of astronomy. Brown markings dot his palm, speckles that meet each other in a pattern of uneven fashion.

 “Astounding,” Bruce says.

 Steve flexes his hand, testing for pain and flexibility. A stinging burn still lingers, but he detects no further damage.

 “Better apply some ointment on it,” Bruce says. “But what is it?”

 Thor cradles Steve’s scarred hand in his; his face cracks in a surprised smile. “It brings to mind the Constellation of the Wolf. It could have been the constellation our friend belonged to.”

 “Oh!” Bruce breathes, astonished.

 “Help get the man to a bed already!” Heimdall scolds, pointing a hand at Bucky’s prone body.

 Steve spends the night in Bucky’s room, dozing off in the uncomfortable chair, head propped against his palm as he tries and fails to remain awake. He rouses with a gasp when his hand eventually gives way and his head slips, jerking as he catches himself from thumping his forehead on the table. The space is bathed in the soft glow of dawn, pinks and oranges giving the wooden furniture a dream-like feel. Birds tweet their greetings and Bucky sleeps on peacefully, his matted hair fanned out on the pillow, a halo of dark twigs. His flesh hand rests on his stomach as his chest rises and falls, still bare after the fusion process.

 Steve rubs the sleep out of his eyes and stretches. He pours a glass of water and sips slowly, the coolness soothing his dry throat. He basks in the serenity of the early hour, before the village is awake and busy with life.

 Bucky stirs when the first human sounds of the morning ring out, morning pleasantries exchanged between the Asgardians. His eyelids flutter until they open in a narrow slit, focused on Steve as his lips twist in drowsy confusion.

 “Hey,” Steve says softly.

 Bucky tilts his head to take in his surroundings, then drops his eyes to his left arm. He watches metal fingers move and artificial knuckles bend with the grace of organic bones and muscles. He curls his palm, flexes it open, slowly rotates his wrist.

 “Does it hurt?” Steve asks, watching the movements.

 “No,” Bucky mumbles.

 “Do you know…” Steve clears his throat hesitantly.

 The sound catches Bucky’s attention. He scowls in impatience, scolding Steve to get on with the question.

 “Do you know if it succeeded?” Steve asks.

 “The arm?” Bucky flexes his metal fingers. “It did. It’s done. It’s staying.” His eyes flicker back at Steve, lips parted as though he isn’t quite finished. His head burrows deeper in the pillow, gaze darting to the ceiling as he swallows down the words he meant to say.

 “What’s going on?” Steve prompts.

 “I…” Bucky splays his flesh hand over the middle of his chest, thudding his palm lightly against it. “It’s as though I’m empty of something I didn’t even know I had. _Here_ ,” he says to the ceiling, pressing down on his chest again. “I know I didn’t need it,” he continues in a gravelly voice, “because there’s still a heartbeat, I’m still here, but–” He presses his lips together in a line. “Maybe the heart–of-the-dying-star power is absurdly finite.”

 “That a good or a bad thing?” Steve asks.

 Bucky shakes his head slightly, the movement almost imperceptible. “Just a thing.”

 Steve decidedly does not _want_ to go. He wants to stay, talk Bucky through the changes and ordeals of the routine of the human life. He wants to linger and know firsthand if the magically attached prosthetic gives him trouble, trek through heaven and earth to get him aid if it does. He wants to make up stories with ludicrously happy endings and share them, in the hopes that they rub off on Bucky and give him the hope that he currently lacks.

 Steve _has_ to go. Ironshield needs him.

 He clears his throat again, and again it catches Bucky’s attention, as though he is attuned to this one mannerism that precedes what Steve finds awkward to speak of.

 “I have to go,” Steve says tautly. “I’m needed in Ironshield. I’ll come visit as soon as it is possible,” he adds, in case it’s worth anything to Bucky.

 If it is, Bucky doesn’t show it. He watches Steve quietly, almost indifferently, expecting more or waiting for him to go.

 Steve lingers for a minute longer, his feet reluctant to carry him away. When it feels meaningless to stay on and prolong the silence, he leans down and rests his hand on Bucky’s own. His skin is warm and soft under Steve’s constellated palm; the contact sends a shiver down Steve’s spine.

 “Take care, all right?” Steve says, voice a little strangled as he gives Bucky’s hand a squeeze.

 Bucky sits up abruptly, eyes wide and lucid. He spins his hand to grip Steve’s fingers, so unforgivingly that his nails dig into Steve’s skin. “I burned you,” he whispers. He turns Steve’s hand over to inspect his palm. His breathing quickens at the sign of the mark, vivid against Steve’s skin but otherwise painless. Clasping his teeth over his lower lip, Bucky traces his thumb over the lines.

 “It’s fine,” Steve assures in a croak, struggling to keep his heart from racing at the touch.

 “I tried not to,” Bucky mutters. “I _knew_ you were there, I tried–”

 “And you succeeded,” Steve interjects. He wants to end the contact before he’s buried in this whirlwind of confused emotions; he never wants the contact to end. “You could have burned me irreparably.”

 “I _could_ have,” Bucky stresses, brow furrowed. He inhales a shaky breath and taps his finger against the marked dots. “This was home.”

 “I’m sorry,” Steve says, the words as ineffectual as every other time.

 Bucky licks his lips and releases Steve’s hand. He falls against the mattress with a thud and turns his head toward the window, away from the room and any further interaction.

 Steve takes this as his cue to go.

 Thor promises he’ll keep the former star safe, promises to send a raven if something goes amiss. He sees Steve off with a tight hug and a warm grin, with friendly words and requests for Steve to visit.

 Thus Steve departs, but the softest part of his heart remains behind.

~*~

 Not soon enough but not long after, cracks in the numbness and futility in Bucky’s heart allow entrance to a dull gleam of a newfound, human-like light. Despair gives way to acceptance of what isn’t and can’t be, to tangible hope for a feasible, reinvented future. Confusion fades into comfortable pragmatism, paving the way to a solid here and now, and Bucky finds himself tentatively edging toward a sense of peace. Goals are set, wants are established, preferences become pinpointed, and in this soothing clarity, three points settle sharp and bright in Bucky’s consciousness, three homing lights like lighthouses in a vast, deep sea.

 One: Asgard is a safe haven, and Bucky owes Thor, Bruce and its trustworthy people his world and life. Two: Steve is an altruistic idiot who trusted Bucky at first sight and almost got burned to death as a result, and should be scolded and thanked as such when he returns. And three: Bucky must put a stop to the corrupt plans of Hydra.


	2. Chapter 2

 The Ironshield Stronghold is a citadel city with a past both long and short: long in terms of roots, of history of duplicity and guile, short in terms of its collapse and its subsequent rebirth after the overthrow of foes working from within. A revolution turned into generalized battle, instigated by those that would later form the Avengers, revealed and weeded out a multitude of Hydra spies and accomplices, and cut off one –albeit not more– of the group’s many proverbial heads. Nowadays it’s a mishmash place, one with a dubious reputation, but the collective morality of which always points north; a fortress built out of righteous spite and irreverence, on ruins owed to previous corrupted rulers.

 Steve loves his city. He loves the people in it, both those that came later and those that remained after, as they now stand for something larger than themselves. He loves the blend of the aesthetics, the old and classic merging with the modern and the sleek; he loves the neighborhood he grew up in, the yards and alleys that made him who he is. Above all, he loves his friends and fellow warriors, the core of the Avengers Guard, who run the city smoothly and extend the courtesy of protection across all known realms.

 He loves his city, but to his discontent, the Stronghold keeps Steve from going back to Asgard for the better part of three months.

 For three long months, he attends endless meetings over politics and ethics, with Tony rambling, specifying, yelling, Natasha arguing and Sam trying to map out a golden middle. For three long months, he trains young soldiers alongside Clint, spends countless hours in Tony’s laboratory testing armors and experimental weapons, crosses the river that protects the city with Natasha and Sam to take care of urgent business in the west.

 For three long months, his hands insist on churning sketch after laborious sketch of a once-star, now-human named Bucky.

 It’s not exactly an obsession. Steve calls it yearning and frustration, a reaction at the infeasibility of his doing what he’d rather be doing because of duties that he’s needed to perform. Bucky himself might have just about forgotten Steve by now, regardless of his daily intangible presence in Steve’s own life.

 The possibility isn’t exactly comforting, but it does not deter Steve’s wish to carry out his long-given promise. Three months after he’s told a nearly unresponsive Bucky that he would return, he makes short work of his way back to Asgard.

 It’s late afternoon when Steve arrives at the gates of the village, laden with gifts, imported delicacies and fabrics sent in from the north, and soothing local balms for minor injuries. After he secures a room at the inn, he finds Thor, grinning as they embrace warmly. Steve produces a miniature sword, a personalized gift for Thor from Tony; Thor laughs heartily at the sight of it.

 “He said you’d say your weapons are far superior to ours, so he didn’t even bother with a real one,” Steve relays.

 Thor pats Steve on the back as he twists the small sword in his hand. “He wouldn’t be wrong, but a gift is a gift and I would have accepted it with gratitude.” He flashes a mischievous smirk. “Even if all I could use it for would be for decoration. What news is there from the Island of the Elms?” he asks. “I heard you had a disagreement with the islanders?”

 Steve makes a noncommittal sound. “Politics,” he says with a shrug. “We were in talks for a week and a day. Finally struck a deal that didn’t need anyone bending over backwards to meet its terms. A lot of ale and rum were consumed,” he adds with an easy grin.

 “Ah, and a lot of fireworks were fired, I presume,” Thor says. “Of course. Ironshield makes a festivity out of everything.”

 “Well, the Asgardians aren’t ones to talk,” Steve teases. “Excessive as it is though, Tony’s heart is in the right place.” To Thor’s questioning look, he elaborates, “You never know which feast is going to be our last one.”

 Thor nods, eyes creased in somber understanding. “Any tidings from Hydra?”

 Steve shakes his head. “Wish there were, a little glad that there aren’t. Maybe the land took care of them for us,” he says, unconvinced and unconvincing.

 “Maybe the hydra herself abducted them to keep inside her cave?” Thor hums under his breath, eyes on the gift; a smile ghosts over his face at the thought and quickly falls away. A silent second later, he musters up a proper smile and looks back at Steve with renewed, if a little forced, mirth. “I’m surprised Tony did not accompany you, I half-expected to be seeing him soon! I would suspect he wouldn’t want to miss a chance at seeing our fallen star friend with his own two eyes!”

 “He did consider it,” Steve says with a grimace. “Fortunately, I managed to dissuade him against it. I wasn’t sure how Bucky would take to the inspection.” And Steve himself didn’t want anyone tagging along the first time he would revisit Bucky either. “And you know Tony hates travelling unless the world’s ending.”

 “Yes, those pesky long distances,” Thor replies. “I swear he’ll be the happiest man on Earth when faster means of travel are invented. When we can glide on air currents like birds, or maybe somehow run like cheetahs–”

 “Trust me, he’s working on it.” Steve clears his throat, awkwardly scratching at his chin. “How is Bucky?”

 Thor beams at the question, clasping his hand over Steve’s shoulder so hard that Steve is almost thrown out of balance. “Come see for yourself!”

 The village market teems with life as Asgardians chatter and haggle. Thor’s housekeeper waves at Steve when he and Thor pass by, then resumes her beating of various rugs. They greet Heimdall as they walk outside the smithy, and still Thor looks nowhere near stopping. Steve’s confusion turns to surprise when they pass all residential spaces and head toward the watchtower to the east. Attached to it stands one of Asgard’s training grounds, a small, elevated open-air arena about half the height of the tower itself.

 Thor nods toward the steps, beckoning Steve to ascend them while he himself takes his leave. Brow knitted in confusion, Steve follows the grunts and scuffles of a practice session, his boots sliding smoothly over the well-trodden rounded slabs of stone. A gentle breeze washes over him once he’s on the top. The scent of wild flowers growing between cracks in the stones fills his nostrils.

 A knife sparring is in session, a rapid dance of calculated steps and sudden jabs by harmless practice knives, led by Valkyrie, the General of the Asgardian Army, partnered with Bucky, flushed, sprightly and engagingly alive. Taken aback, Steve grins, the quirking of his lips untamable.

 Valkyrie flashes a quick glance at Steve, smirks at him with a nod and attacks in a rotation, so that Bucky is now the one facing Steve. He remains focused, wasting none of his concentration or energy on other matters. Steve leans against the wall and folds his arms, watching the fight; watching Bucky.

 Valkyrie is lenient with him, but doesn’t spare him or give him any unwarranted leeway. Inexperienced as Bucky is, choosing to evade rather than attack, he’s far from being hesitant or clumsy. In impressive control of his body for what little time he’s had to practice, the metal arm a natural extension of his person, he’s lithe and nimble with a deadly kind of grace, a feline predator circling a prospective prey. Sweat glistens on his forehead and his neck, makes his three-months-longer hair plaster against his skin and his shirt stick against his body in places. The darkness underneath his eyes is gone, the hollowness replaced by fuller cheeks that glow pink at the exertion. The evident enhancement of his well-being makes Steve’s mouth stretch into a grin again, this time softer under the weight of his affection– not previously quite dormant, but which resurges with the force of two dozen suns.

 Valkyrie charges with a cry and Bucky ducks, falling to a crouch to jam his knife against Valkyrie’s thigh. She lunges her own knife on Bucky’s back, pulls a second knife from the inside of her boot and cuts it across Bucky’s neck.

 Bucky whips his head back and shoots her a betrayed glare, his breathing heavy.

 Valkyrie curls her hand into a fist and pushes it against his shoulder, lightly driving him down to the ground. “You’re dead.”

 “You had a hidden knife!” Bucky gripes.

 “I did!” Valkyrie agrees smugly. “And if I didn’t, you would still be dead.” She drops both knives down to Bucky’s feet as he heaves himself up. “I stabbed you in the heart, from the back.”

 “Literally,” Bucky murmurs, brushing his hair out of his face.

 “If you’re attacking from below, you scram,” Valkyrie says. “You don’t just loiter to enjoy the sight. Might save you a stab. ‘Might’ being the operative word,” she notes dismissively, attention shifting to Steve. Her lips quirk into a sly smile. “Like what you see?”

 Steve flushes, aware that he’s been staring conspicuously hard. He straightens his shoulders and clears his throat; he hopes the burning of his cheeks doesn’t translate into blushing.

 “Hullo, Steve,” Valkyrie says, stepping closer to shake his hand.

 Steve returns the gesture with a smile. “Good to see you well.”

 “Good to see you around.” Valkyrie winks and skips down the steps, leaving Steve effectively alone with Bucky.

 Bucky picks up Valkyrie’s knives, drops them onto the ledge alongside his own, and pulls up his shirt to wipe his brow. Bare, glistening skin and defined muscles peek out at Steve. Steve studiously averts his eyes at the sky and the mountains in the distance, chiding his hammering heart to resume its regular rhythm.

 “Seriously, like what you see?”

 Steve gulps down a calming breath and slowly turns to look at Bucky, now safely clothed on all parts of him that are typically clothed. “Hm?”

 “The fight,” Bucky clarifies, his voice familiarly husky, but with a new confident vigor.

 “Yes,” Steve croaks, mind racing to jump into coherent thinking. “Good technique, given the limited time you must have had to learn and practice. Quick reflexes, but you should learn to anticipate certain counterstrikes. When you do this for long enough, you learn to read the opponent’s next moves. You see it in the way their posture shifts, their grip tightens on a weapon. And,” he adds with a tilt of his head, “you learn to conceal these things for yourself.”

 Bucky responds with a solemn nod. Steve wonders if his eyes were always so intensely deep and bright. They _were_ , he knows this; time and distance must be playing tricks with his heart and mind, and yet–

 “I’ve been practicing hand-to-hand combat as well,” Bucky says, interrupting Steve from his unnerving musings. “Want to see?”

 Steve blinks, bemused. “I…”

 “I’ve heard you’re the best at it, other than the Asgardians,” Bucky says earnestly, before he drags his tongue over his lower lip. “You’d help me see what I should work on.”

 Steve thus finds himself sparring hand to hand with a star. He has the added benefit of a strong but light chainmail worn under his shirt, but the thought of stripping down to fight on even ground makes him flush, even though he’s done the same countless times before his Guard. Still, what skills Steve possesses due to experience, strategy and raw strength, Bucky makes up for with ruthless sneakiness and relentless effort. He uses everything to his advantage, including yanking at Steve’s clothes to destabilize him, and feigning weakness to get instantly on top. Steve holds back, as he would do for any novice’s practice, but Bucky fights dirty, with the intent to win.

 Steve still wins, of course. With a heaving grunt, he tackles Bucky to the ground. He straddles Bucky between his thighs, pinning Bucky’s flesh and metal wrists above his head; he knows from experience that if he doesn’t, Bucky is sure to strike back and slither away. It’s a restraining move, the fight clearly over, and Bucky lies underneath Steve without complaint, panting and sweating, eyes twinkling with something suspiciously close to amusement. He shifts his hips a little under Steve’s crotch, making himself some space. Steve is not certain that his own heavy breathing is due to exertion.

 Bucky’s lips crack into a grin. “Welcome to Asgard, Stevie.”

 Steve’s internal structure melts and reassembles at the diminutive. Bucky nudges Steve’s hand with his head and Steve withdraws, dropping aside and reminding his lungs the necessity of regular breathing.

 Bucky hoists himself upwards and tucks his hair behind his ears. He points his finger toward Steve, raising his eyebrows. “At nightfall. Behind the weaver’s place. Don’t be late, and don’t eat dinner.” He nods, as though agreeing on Steve’s behalf, and takes off down the steps before Steve can vocalize an answer.

 It would have been nothing less than a wholehearted ‘yes’ anyway.

 At dusk, Bucky meets Steve with a basket covered with cloth and a mischievous grin lighting up his face. Steve quirks a curious eyebrow.

 “You cold?” Bucky asks.

 “It’s a balmy night,” Steve replies, the winter cold receding under the liveliness of the first days of spring.

 Bucky nods and beckons Steve to follow. Twice in one day, Steve finds himself led toward yet another mystery destination. They cut in through sleepy alleys and traverse the field paths, darkened and resting under the lullaby of the night. Soon they are at the edge of a short grassy hill and hiking upwards, reaching the top that’s just this side of empty. An oak tree stands lonely in the middle, overlooking the vast meadows that make up Asgard’s northern borders. Bucky heads for the oak, striding confidently as though he has done this countless times. For all Steve knows, he has; for all Steve knows, this _is_ where Bucky spends his nights.

  


  “You still staying at Thor’s?” he asks with narrowed eyes as Bucky sets the basket on the ground.

 Bucky scoffs out a soft chuckle, sitting down cross-legged. “Yes. They don’t trust me with the human ways of living yet. They’re scared I’ll try to eat a log maybe, or set fire to water trying to warm it up.”

 “These sound strangely specific,” Steve remarks.

 Bucky merely smirks.

 Steve settles down beside him, cataloguing the flaws and assets of the new surroundings. A forest just a few feet behind them seems to provide a better cover for Bucky’s penchant to occasionally shimmer than _this_ , two solitary figures and a tree out in the open space.

 The already somewhat faded glimmer that Steve associated with Bucky three months ago is even softer now. Steve only sees glimpses here and there, a faint off-white gleam on his cheekbone, or a dull blue lowlight among his hair. Still, he asks, “Are you sure this is safe?”

 Bucky, peeking under the cloth over the basket, lifts his eyes. “Safe?”

 “It’s nighttime; moonlight. We’re out in the open,” Steve says, gesturing vaguely around them.

 Bucky stares at him with a confused frown. Then, Steve’s insinuation slots in place and he clicks his tongue. “No one’s going to see me shimmer from miles afar. I’m not a beacon, Steve. The rest of it is just Asgard. So.” He wiggles, smacking his hands against his knees with an audible _thwack_. “Steve. We’re having a reconciliation dinner.”

 “A reunion dinner?” Steve clarifies.

 “Reconciliation,” Bucky repeats.

 Steve twists his mouth. “I don’t follow.”

 Bucky drags his tongue over his lower lip. “We got off to an awkward start,” he says levelly. “You, unwise but noble, tried to help me–”

 “I’m sorry– unwise?” Steve interjects.

 “Definitely,” Bucky ascertains with a nod. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and that was unwise. I could’ve assaulted you” –he lists on his fingers– “could’ve been lying to you, could’ve had splendid celestial powers that would destroy you or enchant you, but _that_ didn’t stop you.” He shrugs, eyes wide in matter-of-fact earnestness at his convictions. “Although that alone would have been enough, you threw yourself inside the heat of a star to hold my hand– and _why_?”

 “…Why?” Steve mouths, face contorted in bemusement and vexation.

 “Because of your unwise noble attitude,” Bucky asserts.

 “Attit– _Bucky_!” Steve protests, brow furrowed. “I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing when I _could_ do something, when I knew I _should_ do something.”

 Bucky calmly reaches out to hold Steve’s hand, turning it so that the markings of the Constellation of the Wolf are visible. “Self-effacing,” he says with a pointed look.

 “It’s–”

 “Self-sacrificing?” Bucky suggests, giving Steve’s hand a condescending pat before setting it on Steve’s thigh. “Self-negating?”

 “It was the right thing to do,” Steve snaps.

 “Well,” Bucky says, with a playful smirk that lightens up the mood, “you were lucky it was just me. It could’ve been a foe, a traitor–”

 “Right, yes, so lucky,” Steve teases in a mock begrudging mumble.

 Bucky winces. He digs his teeth into his lower lip, crinkling his nose as he flashes an apologetic smile. “I know,” he says ruefully.

 Steve starts. “I didn’t mean–”

 “I know,” Bucky repeats. “But _I_ did mean to apologize, hence the dinner. You were only trying to make things easier, and I didn’t– I couldn’t let you.”

 Steve shakes his head. “No need to apologize.”

 Bucky lets out a quiet grunt, raising his palm in protest. “I–”

 “No.” Steve grips Bucky’s hand in his and squeezes it to stress his point. He quickly releases Bucky’s fingers, skin tingling at the memory of the brief touch. “But I’ll take the dinner. I’m starving.”

 Bucky lets out a giggle, high-pitched and musical, reminiscent of wind chimes’ songs. He turns aside to retrieve the basket, in time to miss the sudden catch in Steve’s breath at the endearing sound. He heaves the basket between the two of them and pulls aside the cloth, revealing an assortment of breads, vegetables and jerkies, fruit and carafes of water and wine.

 “Help yourself.” He gestures an extravagant hand wave. “You must be exhausted after besting me,” he adds with a grin.

 The mention brings up the question– and Steve would have asked it already, had Bucky stayed around after their sparring. “Why do you do it?” He drops his voice as though the conversation is confidential, a secret from the moon lounging on the sky. “Why learn how to fight?”

 Bucky hums, deliberating on his answer. “Hydra’s coming for me, if it really was them,” he says quietly. “And if it wasn’t, whoever it was will come. I don’t… I don’t know if I do have any heart-of-dying-star power left, I don’t think that I do, but I’m not letting them get to me either way.” He lifts one shoulder, lips pressed together in a line. “They fucked up my life once. They’re not allowed to do the same again, and they’re not allowed to hurt anyone because of me, or through me.” His eyes are vulnerable, despite the harshness of the words that follow. “I’ll strike them down, Steve, or kill myself if they catch me. See what they do with a star deader than dead.”

 Steve’s stomach twists at the image that Bucky conjures. “No one’s getting to you,” he musters.

 “They aren’t?” Bucky asks mildly.

 “I’m not going to let them,” Steve says, knowing it’s an impossible promise; knowing he’ll still try to fulfill it till his very end. “I’ll burn the ground they walk on before I let them.”

 Bucky regards him silently for a moment, eyes crinkling at the corners with tiny traces of amusement. “I don’t want to be at someone else’s mercy, nor should anyone have to carry that burden.” He toys with the grass, his gaze following the motion. “It’s not pretty, the fighting. It’s cruel. But it’s necessary. To me.”

 It’s a double-edged sword, seeing Bucky like this. Fire burns within him, fueled by something sinister and searing, but at the same time founded on caring, on a desire to protect what he’s found the strength to piece together. It’s a mix of sentiments that Steve understands well, but which Bucky himself was never meant to encounter, involving risks that he was not prepared to take. Steve’s heart surges up his throat, threatens to spill ramblings of sympathy that almost aches, of admiration at Bucky’s dark and light balance.

 He licks his lips, voice thick and low as he declares, “Then you won’t have to be alone.”

 Bucky looks up at Steve, his eyes boring deep as through reading the depth of Steve’s sincerity. The quiet is unnerving, but Steve holds Bucky’s gaze with ease. No word that’s left his lips has been dishonest, no ill will can be found within his soul. He has nothing that he needs to hide, except maybe the cascading waves of fondness that wash over his heart.

 Bucky breaks the eye contact first, nodding in answer to a question in his mind. He straightens his shoulders and assumes a cheerier demeanor. “Right. I brought food.” He yanks a bread loaf out of the basket, too sharply to be utterly casual. He breaks the loaf in two, balancing one half of it on Steve’s thigh. “Wine, let’s toast, all the shebang,” he says, gesturing at the carafes.

 “All the shebang,” Steve echoes, lips quirking in a doting smile.

 The food goes quickly, and all the while Bucky giggles at the eagerness with which Steve gobbles down everything in sight. The water is forgotten in favor of the sweet wine. Full and satiated, Steve lies on his back, head nestled on his hands and eyelids heavy at the accumulated weariness of the day. Bucky flops down beside him, shifting until he settles, a spot of warmth in the otherwise chilly night. Stars dot the sky, dancing in a blue infinite playground as crickets from the forest provide a lulling, rhythmic melody.

 “Tell me a story,” Bucky requests.

 Steve opens his mouth in a near protest, then snaps it shut and puffs out a breath. He’s pleasantly buzzed, comfortable and exhausted, his brain too mellow to conjure up words of tales. Yet, he longed for those quiet storytelling moments in his absence, and now can’t find it in him to refuse.

 “In a tiny village of the distant southern lands, there once lived a miller,” he starts, his voice almost a whisper. “He resided in a tiny house, owned a tiny amount of wealth, had his mill on top of a summit about half a day travel’s away.”

 Bucky cushions his head against his metal arm, his flesh fingers toying with the grass beside him.

 “The path toward the mill was treacherous to travel on at night,” Steve continues, “for it was surrounded by birches and tall redwoods, speckled with mountain bells and pinesaps, which were all the territory of the forest faeries; flighty creatures known for their youthful spirit and their often cruel taste for mischief.”

 Bucky huffs scornfully, clearly disagreeing with the depiction. Steve glances at him, but Bucky doesn’t share his thoughts.

 “In their carefree manners, they were dangerous,” Steve goes on. “To them, everything was to be used for fun, including any unlucky, stray villagers. Should one encounter faeries in the nighttime, the time that the faeries ventured out into the wild, they would be dragged into a ceaseless dance, unbearable to their frail human bodies, and could not dare speak up, for if they uttered any word or cry, the faeries were wont to steal their voices. The captives were not released until the first rays of the new day, when many of them collapsed onto the ground, unable to move for hours; often lost inside the forest for days or months to come.”

 Bucky hums, this time acquiescing.

 “The miller, harried to produce bread for a wedding, decided to take the chance and trek at night, so that he could begin work first thing in the morn.” Steve pauses for a beat, rubbing his steadily blearier eyes. “With his mule in tow, he made for his mill on foot. Titters and chortles pierced the night’s silence, but still the miller walked, resolved in not making a sound. Halfway up the hill, he came across a forest faery, twice as tall as him and carrying in her arms a small child. In a voice resounding and deep, she asked of him to take her and the child atop the hill. The miller complied wordlessly and helped the faery climb upon the mule.” Steve swallows thickly through his cottony throat. The water is too far to reach without moving, and moving seems impossible with his whole body heavy as lead. His eyelids droop slowly, demanding sleep.

 “As the small company trekked upwards,” he says with a small sigh, “the child elongated his leg, the elastic-looking limb attempting to make the miller trip and fall. The faery uttered a forbidding ‘No’, chastising the child into behaving. Again the child would try and again the faery would admonish him, in a back and forth that went on long into the night.” Steve closes his eyes, stifling a yawn. “The miller carried on. They walked and walked, and up they went… Up onto the hill. Deep into the night…” He trails off, the pause prolonging into a long silence.

 “And then?” Bucky asks, his voice close to Steve’s ear.

 “It’s a long way up the mill,” Steve says, a smirk playing on his lips. “They’re still at it.”

 Bucky whines, the sound high-pitched and strained.

 “I’ll let you know as soon as they reach the top,” Steve assures pleasantly. “Possibly tomorrow.”

 A backhanded smack lands on Steve’s arm.

 “Jerk,” Bucky mumbles. After a beat, he asks, “You’re staying? Tomorrow?”

 “For a couple days,” Steve replies.

 Bucky resettles, clothes rustling against grass, shoes scuffling on the ground. His arm presses against Steve’s own, ghostly in its lightness, infinitely pleasant in its nearness.

 “I’ll hold you to it,” Bucky says, in a voice almost too low to hear.

 Steve hears it all the same, and he smiles.

 Steve’s ‘couple days’ turn into a week. After this, he quickly accomplishes his duties at the Stronghold and returns to Asgard, each time lingering for even longer. His visits to the village become a staple; the days spent occupying his now bespoke room at the inn almost surpass the days that he sleeps in his own bed back at the Stronghold. The intimacy of his surroundings and his relative unimportance of status –he’s still the Captain of the Avengers Guard, but for the Asgardians he’s mostly merely a good friend– brings out the more outgoing side of him, often neglected or suppressed in the formalities of his regular day-to-day life.

 He keeps up daily correspondence with the Stronghold, trains on his own and oftentimes with Bucky, or watches him practice and offers tips. On the way back from the training grounds or the fields where they sometimes go running, Bucky and Steve loiter at the market, engaging in comparisons of item versus item and taste versus taste. Friendly discussions over dinner in the tavern turn into debates about meaning, one’s existence and of gods, the mannerisms of Steve’s usual dinner companions now familiar to all who frequent the inn: Thor begins modestly and ends up banging mugs against the table; Steve matches him in tone of voice; Bucky, whenever present, listens to everyone but never takes sides, no matter how much Thor and Steve try to drag him into it through glances of commiseration or disbelief. Asgardians who come and go join in, or place bets on who will give up first. Valkyrie always rolls her eyes, gulps down wine until she can’t stand the discussion anymore, then settles the matter in one carefully worded answer.

 It’s a respite, trips prompted by wish and carefreeness rather than danger and threat, and Steve accepts it, desperate for the chance to not _do_ , but _be_ , just for a while. Until the world comes into a crisis or the moon herself falls down the sky, until someone declares war, or peace-threatening frays shake the land, Steve is content to succumb to his heart’s pull and always finds his way back to Asgard; to old friends, and the little by little always more anticipated company of Bucky.

~*~

 Steve’s frequent presence does little in the way of dulling the giddiness in Bucky’s heart every time a falcon swoops down into the village to find Thor, carrying a note of Steve’s imminent arrival.

 The longer Steve’s visits become, the harder it is to watch him leave. Tight-lipped goodbye smiles that don’t quite reach up to Bucky’s eyes turn into piercing and unhappy pangs, into a breath that he is not quite able to take, a bittersweet and melancholy clenching in his lungs.

 Perplexing nuances of the human body aside, the life that Bucky maintains takes root and flourishes. Training progresses, as he spends countless hours of work at it. The Asgardians trust him with small menial jobs and pay him for them, patient with him when he tries to learn skills he’s yet to know. He becomes vaguely acquainted with farming and doesn’t particularly like milking cows, but finds the tending of the crops and their harvesting quite settling. On a lazy evening, Bruce employs his assistance to take stock of his herbs, only for the two of them to realize in stunned silence that Bucky doesn’t know how to write or read, despite his ability to communicate or connect with most, if not actually all, living beings. Thus begins Bucky’s personal quest towards literacy. He borrows books from anyone willing to provide them and scrawls one letter beside the next, with painstaking care under the candlelight.

 In midsummer, Bucky is trusted with a home, a small, cozy house in one of the quieter quarters of the village. Bucky sets into shaping it into a place that feels his, even though in his mind it’s merely temporary.

 “It doesn’t have to be,” Steve points out to him on a slow late afternoon. He’s brought a chair out to Bucky’s front door and balances on its back legs as he idly sketches, keeping Bucky company while he finishes his chores.

 Bucky toils over clothes that needed washing, groaning above a basin that’s a little too small. Water and soap slosh over the basin’s rim or splash Bucky’s shirt, and Bucky berates himself a little for not having taken care of this one task that morning. He would have, if Steve hadn’t distracted him with fresh strawberries and new stories from the recent travels that eventually brought him to Asgard.

 In the silence that Bucky is supposed to fill with a reply, Steve glances up at him with traces of a half-smile, a veiled question: _Why_ is _it temporary?_

 Technically, it doesn’t have to be. Asgard doesn’t have to be only a temporary safe limbo, it could _actually_ be home, but Hydra or someone else the likes of it still has it out for Bucky. The ever-present thought looms over Bucky like a prophecy made for a personal doomsday heralded for him alone, and Bucky is fighting tooth and claw to have a chance against it. The outcome of this encounter once it comes is wildly uncertain, the future after it even more so. ‘Temporary’ is the best that Bucky has, and his cherishing of what this temporariness has given him is hardly dampened by the fogged and as of now intangible time to come.

 Still, he doesn’t want to mar the light-hearted day that Steve and him have had with bleak discussions. “You know,” he says instead, tone playful as he wipes strands of hair out of his eyes, water and soap trickling down the side of his cheek, “if you stopped drawing the Stronghold–”

 Steve lets out an indignant sound, letting the chair legs drop to the ground. He turns around his sketchbook, flaunting the beginnings of what’s to be a probably picture perfect sketch of Ironshield’s main square. “You said you wanted to see!”

 “Yes,” Bucky replies tactfully –and he does want to see, does want to know where Steve lives and works and spends his time, wants to see this legend of a citadel and a city, but maybe not just now. “But if you stopped _that_ , and helped me wash _these_ ,” he says, eyebrows arching as he lifts the clothes above the basin’s rim, “I’d…” He shrugs. “Hm. I’d offer you free lodgings.”

 Steve startles, blinking once, twice, lips parted but at loss for any answer.

 Bucky ducks his head toward the basin and flicks his hair over his face to hide his smile. He’s been choosing his words and considering the best timing for his suggestion at least since Steve’s last visit, wanting to seize the chance of having him in his nearest vicinity for a few hours longer. The offer doesn’t sound especially convincing, not even in his own head, not when he’s in possession of a single bed in close quarters, therefore necessitating that someone sleeps on the floor.

 Preferably Steve.

 But only preferably.

 “Hm?” Steve says when he finds his voice.

 “What I said,” Bucky replies.

 Steve rises to his feet, drops the sketchbook and pencil on the chair and pads to Bucky. He nudges him aside, submerging his hands in the water. With a half-hearted glare, he pries the clothes out of Bucky’s grip.

 Bucky’s lips twitch, cheeks warming as though in a blush. He pulls his hands out of the basin, air-drying them and splashing droplets on Steve’s face.

 Steve clicks his tongue. “Would you–”

 “I’m free!” Bucky declares dramatically, a wide grin stretching across his face. “I’m out.” He takes a few step backwards, reveling in Steve’s indignant, “Bucky!” The intensity of it makes Bucky even more exuberant. The current of excitement that lights him up at Steve’s acceptance of his offer boosts his energy. Too elated to retain his cool, he lets out a giggle and takes off running, shouting another bout of an obnoxious “I’m free!”

 “Are you _serious_?” Steve yells, but Bucky’s already on a trajectory to the market, making plans for a later feast.

 He returns bringing an apple pie and ale, and cooks a dinner accidentally too spicy to celebrate Steve’s new status as a guest. Steve deems it a fair exchange for his earlier abandonment, and mutters sullenly only just once that he had to provide washing _and_ drying services.

 “I’ll take the floor,” Steve says, leaning back in his chair and toying with his napkin.

 “No, please,” Bucky says flatly, unconvincing as he licks apple pie stickiness off his fingers.

 Steve follows the movement with his eyes, their usual blue darkened in the dim lamplight. He clears his throat, giving himself a small shake. “I’ll take the floor.”

 “I’ll give you my best sheets,” Bucky replies.

 Slowly, fondness springs up in Bucky’s heart over the simplest things, things otherwise patently mundane. Casual touches turn lingering, looks last longer than they should and oftentimes melt into smiles, soft and a little fleeting in the odd bashfulness that they produce. Butterflies flutter their wings and drunkenly fling themselves against Bucky’s ribcage when Steve stumbles sleepily around the house during early mornings, cursing when he cannot find clean spoons or mugs. A pleasant buzzing numbs Bucky’s brain whenever Steve threads his fingers through the roots of Bucky’s hair and gives it a small tug. His doting and somewhat confused gaze wanders on Steve’s face that is cherished and familiar, and Bucky studies the expressions Steve employs when he draws; deep wrinkles on his brow when he can’t quite get it, tongue peeking smugly between his teeth when he’s accomplished something he approves, features occasionally contorting to mimic the expression of the subject on his paper. Bucky doesn’t quite need to brush his hips against Steve’s arms every time he passes by Steve sitting on the table, their hands don’t necessarily need to connect whenever they pass objects back and forth; but Bucky is drawn to Steve with every fiber of his being, his body and soul clinging to his presence like the ocean tries to cling onto the sand.

 He doesn’t recognize it for what it is at first, why Steve makes Bucky feel as though he’s devoured a galaxy, fuchsias, purples, blues and bright light swirling within him in a symphony of euphoria and color. Bucky doesn’t know what it is about Steve that makes him feel as though the births of nebulas unfold before his eyes, until one scorching late summer night that finds them both unable to fall asleep. All breeze has forsaken the entire village, and Bucky’s open windows do nothing to quench the intolerable heat. Apparently, he cannot handle the rise of the external temperature, no matter how hotly a star can burn, and Bucky is just about ready to renounce this mortal coil altogether. His bare chest gets damper by the second, even by his just lying still and half-naked on the bed.

 Steve is not faring much better, lying on the floor and sweltering on ruffled sheets. Usually covered with at least a blanket, now he’s thrown even that aside, kicked it away as he huffed and puffed and raked his fingers through his hair with groans. He’s attempted numerous times to fan his hand over his own bare chest, and Bucky has to swallow down sneering remarks of how vastly that is ineffective.

 Bucky sighs at the night sky, blinking slowly as he gazes at the bright stars outside. He idly stretches his right hand to capture Steve’s attention, fingers colliding with squishy parts– Steve’s lips and nose, judging by Steve’s muffled sounds and his flailing as he swats Bucky’s hand away.

 “The hell?” Steve mutters.

 Bucky withdraws his hand. “Tell me a story.”

 Steve huffs out a breath, but to Bucky’s luck, he doesn’t protest. “Might as well,” he mumbles, wiping dampness off of his forehead. “In a city now long-gone that favored riches and indulgence,” he starts, “once there lived a young man in thirst of knowledge. Orphaned early and forced to make ends meet, he worked under a wealthy patron who sent him off on grueling jobs; but to the young man, this opportunity was nothing short of treasure, because the patron owned the largest library of any other city-dweller. Still, this place being a hub for pleasure, the patron’s books weren’t enough, and the young man soon found himself having gone over all of them twice. The man would often frequent spots favored by vacationers or travelers, eager to engage them in conversation over the sights and customs that he himself would never see. One morning something changed within him; it dawned on him that he could at any given moment leave, depart for faraway places and experience life in the manner that he yearned. That same night, the young man left.”

 Bucky lets his head loll to his right and settles his eyes down at Steve. Moonlight slips coyly through the window and dances on his skin, Mother Moon cradling Steve in her embrace.

 “Full of enthusiasm but directionless, the young man soon ended up penniless, alone in lands unknown. Towns gave way to endless nature and he forged on, hoping to encounter civilization. A while after, he noticed that he was being closely followed.” Steve turns his eyes at Bucky and allows for a beat, giving room for his dramatic statement: “But not by any man.” He brings one arm under his head, nesting on it as he continues, “He was followed by a winged panther, a creature of magnificently elegant beauty, his black fur interweaved by golden stripes.”

 Bucky raises an eyebrow, though Steve, his eyes back to the sky, doesn’t see it.

 “The man knew he should be scared, but the panther was hardly intimidating. He didn’t hurt him, never approached too close. He was a silent companion, and when the man would find food, water or shelter, he would always try to share it with the panther, kindness beating out any misgivings about the odds of his survival around a wild animal. At long last, the forests gave way to a desert, barren and merciless, that only spoke of impassable mountains when they’d be through. The panther, so far keeping distance, drew closer to the man and nudged him to climb upon his back. With his mighty wings, the panther flew over the unwelcoming terrain, carrying the man to a hidden land, uncharted in the maps of humans.”

 Bucky crinkles his nose in a grimace.

 “In this land lived small tribes,” Steve says, “who’d built their lives around a mountain of metal, a metal of immense power that they did not know how to extract or utilize. The man, having picked up a skill or two in the city that he grew up in and abandoned, shared all the knowledge that he could provide. And so,” he goes on, “the tribe came to expand and thrive, humans living in the company of panthers, prospering under the guidance of this young man, who in the toil and companionship of their daily lives found no thirst in him to roam anymore. Thus was created the mythical Wakanda, a country so advanced the likes of which we might never come to know. And so they’re said to exist up to this day, sheltered and flourishing under the panthers’ ever-watchful eyes.” He clears his throat. “The end.”

 Bucky turns to his side, right hand stretched out as he locks his gaze on Steve’s. “That was very nice,” he says, “but you’re wrong.”

 Steve arches a dubious eyebrow.

 “That wasn’t a winged panther, it was a Wakandan panther,” Bucky says. “They’re magnificent and elegant no doubt, but I assure you, they can’t fly.”

 Steve tilts his head. “What?”

 “And,” Bucky continues, “Wakanda isn’t mythical.”

 Steve’s eyes grow wide, shining blue and silver in the moonlight. “Wakanda is real?”

 Bucky puffs out a chuckle. “Very much so. Princess Shuri of the nation talked to me on many nights when I was–” he tips his head toward the window– “up. She’d walk alongside the panthers on long nightly walks, brainstorming new creations and inventions.” His lips quirk upwards under the haze of reminiscence. “Occasionally having friendly brawls with the leader of their Jabari tribe.”

 Steve takes a breath to speak, but lets out a hum instead. “You know more of this land than I do, apparently.”

 “Apparently,” Bucky echoes with a smirk. “Did have a bird’s-eye view, after all.” He frowns. “A _star’s_ -eye view?”

 “Oh gods.” Steve groans, scrubbing a hand over his face at the pun. “All right. All right, so, any tips?”

 Bucky presses his lips together in deliberation. He slides down to the floor and props his head on the crook of his elbow, his eyes inevitably drawn to the glistening expanse of Steve’s chest. He drags his teeth over his lower lip and reaches out a metal finger, drawing a circle in the center of Steve’s ribcage. Steve shivers under the touch.

 “We’re here,” Bucky says softly, using Steve’s body as a map. He traces a line to Steve’s right pec, drawing on it another invisible circle. “You don’t want to mess with the dragons _here_ ,” he says. The heat from their proximity is stifling, but Bucky is content to remain like this for the foreseeable future.

 “Mm hm,” Steve hums faintly.

 “They’re territorial,” Bucky murmurs, pressing his metal palm against Steve’s skin. “Here” –he drags his finger to Steve’s left pec– “beyond the frozen lake…”

 “The Lake of Clustered Stars,” Steve says, his breath shallow and warm on Bucky’s forehead.

 “No relation, but yes,” Bucky confirms with a smile, tracing twisting lines against Steve’s skin. “If you make it past it– not recommended,” he heeds with a quiet chuckle, “and walk north, you come across a river wherein lives a kelpie, friendly only to the river tribe…” –he traces a line on Steve’s collarbone– “at the river’s east.” He takes in a deep breath, skin tingling and heart beating double-time over nothing. The light-hearted gesture is now a quest to trace as much of Steve as possible, the contact heady and intoxicating.

 “What else?” Steve whispers.

 Encouraged by the question, Bucky continues, willing to draw a map of the entire universe if it would let him touch Steve more. He draws a slow, meandering line down Steve’s stomach that settles softly on his left hipbone. “Here,” he says, voice barely audible as parts of him become sensitive and increasingly swollen, “are woods so thick even _I_ couldn’t see what is inside them. And here…” He pulls his hand to dance two gentle fingers over Steve’s right ribs. “Here…” he repeats, skin flustered. “Don’t visit the Mantis maiden with any company. Unless you’re ready for everyone to know about your feelings.”

 Steve hums, a sound between consideration and agreement. Bucky looks up into his eyes, darkened and firmly fixed on Bucky’s face. He drops his gaze onto Steve’s lips, pink and inviting under the silver moonbeams. Steve runs his tongue over his teeth, then wets his lips, and Bucky’s heart skips a beat altogether. Breath lodging in his chest, a veil lifts, and in a moment of clarity, Bucky sees this for what it really is, realizes what makes Steve’s presence so loved, loving and familiar. His soul sings out at the satiation of grasping at the truth Bucky was missing, and now he finds it impossible to take his hand off Steve. Attraction and affection bubble up within him, reach up his throat and demand to be released in an almost hysterical exhilarated giggle. Bucky swallows down the impulse, lest the sudden sound scares away the intimacy.

 Steve drops his eyes down to Bucky’s lips, lingering on Bucky’s gently bobbing chest, then drifting down to lower regions. He furtively averts his eyes to the ceiling, gulping down hard and clearing his throat. “We should, uh. Sleep.”

 Bucky nods, serene in his newfound awakening.

 “You staying down here?” Steve asks, his voice quivering somewhat.

 Bucky curls his lips in an attempt at nonchalance. “Cooler on the ground, I think.”

 Steve nods and tilts his head a little, his forehead pressing against Bucky’s. He closes his eyes and tries to lure in sleep.

 The morning sunbeams hit Bucky with a heat even more merciless than the night’s, rousing him in a protesting groan. Eyes squinted closed, he shifts onto his side and stretches out his hand. It lands on something soft and hard at once, and Bucky smiles at the startled sound that Steve makes.

 Steve pushes Bucky’s fingers off his face. “Again?” he gripes.

 “Oh, did I wake you?” Bucky mumbles innocently, opening his eyes.

 Steve heaves a dramatic sigh and threads his fingers through Bucky’s matted hair, giving his roots a light, exasperated tug. He props himself up on his palm and scrubs his face, before stumbling sleepily toward the holy grail of coffee. Bucky watches him unabashedly, following the movement of his muscles as he stretches and bends to reach for mugs and spoons.

 It will be hard –harder than usual– when Steve leaves. But, Bucky thinks, with a smile that spreads slowly on his lips, it will be that much more gratifying when Steve returns.

~*~

 Steve is “star-struck”, “star-smitten”, “star-taken”, and every other bad pun that he can think of for his private amusement. Love, lust and yearning take root inside his soul like overly enthusiastic vines, tendrils climbing up into a tapestry of vibrant leaves and myriads of flowers, until Bucky becomes as natural and essential in Steve’s life as breathing.

 Hydra provides the “star-crossed” pun for good measure.

 It begins with a seemingly simple mission, a quick note from a hamlet five days west of the Stronghold, informing of a troll attack. Sam and Natasha handpick a selection of the Guard’s novices and depart with them, taking the chance to train them in field work during a relatively easy mission. Soon, Steve receives word of a successful de-trolling, but of strange accounts from further west. Reportedly, a group of Hydra supporters has been spotted, creeping their way north through natural hideouts and lesser known paths; the team stationed at the hamlet sets out to investigate the claims.

 A week later, already a week too long in Steve’s restless opinion, a note arrives, written in the impatient handwriting of Natasha:

 “ _Found Hydra, lost them in the Maze. We have help from the Nova Corps._

  _Don’t come out here, it’s already too late. Sam’s heading back. Stay put_.”

 Tony stares agape at the note when Steve visits his lab to show him. “The hell– the _Nova Corps_?” He lifts his eyes, brow wrinkled in furrows. “The _Maze_? Why _the hell_ would Hydra– would _anyone_ go inside _the Maze_ , that’s almost certain death!”

 “Technically it’s only woods,” Steve points out, folding his arms.

 “The hell it is!” Tony snaps, gesturing wildly. “Would _you_ go in there? Would you risk going in there, knowing that you might never find a way out? That you probably _won’t_ find a way out? Who’s been in there and made it out to tell the tale? For all we know, it’s home to living corpses or–or ghost wanderers or– _anything_!” He narrows his eyes as he looks back at Natasha’s note. “What in the hell’s their endgame?”

 “They probably didn’t _have_ an endgame,” Steve says. “Just trying to escape Sam and Natasha.”

 “Yes, but like Natasha says,” Tony insists, waving the note, “there’s always the Nova Corps. If they do somehow get out, they’ll be led right to Xandar’s backyard, and the Nova Corps are damn good– there’s _no_ happy outcome for them with this.”

 “That doesn’t sound exactly bad,” Steve remarks. “But we’ll have to wait for Sam.”

 “Yeah.” Tony wipes a hand over his mouth. “Yeah, that’ll take a while. I really need to find a way to cut those distances in half.”

 “Right.” Steve leans against the wall, lips stretching in a humoring smile.

 “Wings,” Tony says, “for people. Or– carriages… for the sky. Bypass the land and lakes and mountains–”

 “Who’s gonna _carry_ the carriages?” Steve asks, bemused.

 Tony lifts his arms, lets them drop audibly at his sides, then shrugs. “No one. They’ll carry themselves.”

 “Uh huh,” Steve agrees with a nod. “That’s right, of course.”

 “I’ll just need a little time to figure out the how,” Tony says.

 “As long as the testing doesn’t include carriages falling down from the sky,” Steve replies.

 The news being pertinent to the safety of Asgard, Steve employs a falcon to send a brief letter to Thor. He sends a second letter, a much shorter one, to Bucky, partly because it feels right to inform him of Hydra’s whereabouts directly, mostly because Steve craves the contact that he can’t seek out any time soon. He takes care to employ his neatest handwriting, and pens down his message:

 “ _We’ve received worrisome news regarding our ever-present bane of Hydra._

  _They should be far from Asgard at this point, but I’m urging you to remain safe all the same._

  _Take care,_

  _Steve_.”

 In an afterthought, he draws a quick sketch of forget-me-not flowers, lips quirking up into a slow smile.

 He doesn’t expect any reply, but one does come, with the falcon that Steve sent away. The bird finds him as Steve joins Clint in the assessment of his novice archers. It lands on Steve’s shoulder with a caw, startling him and making Clint snigger. Steve clears his throat and unties the rolled-up letter from the falcon’s leg. Released, the falcon flies away, and Steve unfolds the message. He barely stops himself before he laughs aloud at Bucky’s reply of choice.

 “ _! ! !_

  _Hydra doing Hydra things! Who knew!_

  _We’re good here, Stevie. Take care yourself.”_

 He signs the letter with a hasty sketch of a star.

 “Good news?” Clint asks.

 Steve passes Clint the note. Clint skims it and barks out a laugh. The sound doesn’t distract any of the archers, which speaks well to their training and skills.

 “ _Yes!_ ” Clint hisses approvingly.

 Sam makes it to the Stronghold a few days later, assembling the Avengers, sans Natasha.

 “They were just passing through,” he tells Steve, Clint and Tony, gathered as they are around a table laden with maps with pins, and compasses resting on various papers. “They weren’t _doing_ anything, they were just travelling east, a bunch of them and a witch, two mules, no horses.”

 “There’s your star’s witch,” Clint tells Steve, rapping his knuckles on the table.

 “ _If_ it was them that did it,” Sam reminds.

 “Of course it was, they have a witch, ancient magic and all that,” Tony says with a dismissive wave. “And you drove them into the Maze?” Sam opens his mouth to reply, but Tony goes on, “If they’re in the Maze, they’re not in prison, and if they’re not in prison, they’re free, and we don’t _want them_ free.”

 “We merely went after them; _they_ chose to enter the Maze,” Sam replies. “It was either cornering them there, or letting them escape. Look at their options. Xandar,” he lists off on his fingers, “powerful nation, no question there, they have the Nova Corps. Natasha’s there, with our soldiers. And then the Maze itself. They’re a little bit surrounded.”

 “And we could send out more soldiers,” Steve suggests. “We could even go ourselves.”

 Sam shakes his head. “And do what? Spread ourselves thin just to be sitting ducks on all sides of that freaking massive forest?”

 “And until when?” Clint adds. “Even if Hydra comes out of it alive, it might be five days or five years from now.”

 “If they do go into Xandar, and make it out of there somehow,” Steve says, studying the maps showing the land under discussion, “it’ll still delay them. If they had a set destination, they’ll now have to go north instead” –he points at the corresponding points– “trek through the Mountains of Lacrimony, _then_ circle back to go northeast. We can send out scouts in key points along the way.”

 Sam nods. “Let’s do that.”

 “Yes, perfect, great,” Tony says impatiently, smacking his palms together, “but we still don’t know if they know precisely where they’re meant to go.”

 “We couldn’t exactly ask them,” Sam remarks dryly.

 “We’ll have to assume,” Clint says, “that if they want the star and they’re heading east, they’re going to Asgard.”

 “Assume the worst, rejoice if we’re wrong?” Tony says.

 “So we assume that they know where he is at all times,” Steve clarifies.

 “Better safe than sorry,” Sam says with a shrug.

 “If I knew _how_ they know that,” Tony says sourly, “maybe I could devise a way for them to _not_ know that. Block him from them, so to speak.”

 “Again,” Sam repeats, “couldn’t exactly ask.”

 “If we had a witch or wizard, we could ask them,” Tony says. “I need to find a witch or wizard– why _on earth_ don’t we employ one?”

 “It’s not a common skill,” Clint remarks.

 “Probably for the better,” Sam adds.

 “If the witch is with them,” Steve says, ignoring the small talk, “if she’s leading them, there probably aren’t any additional teams coming in from other directions.”

 “Probably,” Sam agrees. “But we can’t be sure.”

 Steve nods, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. “I’ll send word to Thor to up their vigilance.”

 Tony crosses his arms with a grimace. “Gotta find me a witch.”

 “You’ll find a witch,” Clint consoles him.

 Rather than writing Thor a report the size of an essay, Steve highlights the main points and promises that he will visit soon with the specifics. It’s a luxury he can afford, now that the Avengers know at least a little about what they are up against, and the majority of them are at the Stronghold.

 With the soldiers and scouts assigned to strategically elected points, Steve resolves to depart come morning.

 His resolution falls short as evening melts into the first hours of a fitful night. Steve finds himself restlessly pacing in his quarters of the Avengers’ Tower. The waiting makes his body tingle with tension, as though he’s wasting time and Asgard will suffer for it. Unwitting thoughts creep into his mind of Hydra attacking from the south, ambushing Asgard even though Asgard isn’t likely to be caught unprepared. Reasonably, a few hours will not make any difference, not with Asgard already knowing what’s important, not with their impeccable army. Still, Steve can’t shake the fear that if he doesn’t do all that is within his power, if he doesn’t take care of things _now_ , then he’ll be too late.

 He huffs a breath, frustrated with himself as he glances out the window at the moonless night. There’s no point in waiting, he decides. There’s no point in spending a useless night tossing and turning anxious for the dawn to come. Resigned at his inability to stay still, he packs up, informs Tony of his intentions and quickly makes his way to the stables to get Pony.

 Journeying to Asgard, Steve frets over the moonless sky that does not allow for faster travel, and stops reluctantly to rest only when Pony tires. His heart races nervously all along his trip, gripped by an absurd need to see, to _touch_ Bucky, have him within his sights under the now more tangible threat that Hydra poses.

 Nearly three days later and newly arrived in Asgard, Steve fills Thor in first. He all but storms into Thor’s house, disheveled and bone-tired, in equal parts scaring and angering the housekeeper who had been on her merry way to bed. Thor and Steve send for Valkyrie and stay up late, dissecting the minutiae of what Sam recounted. Asgardian raven scouts have already been sent to nearby outposts and extra eyes have been posted to the watchtowers and gates. Thor praises heartily the hindering abilities of nature in regards to the Mountain of Lacrymose and the Maze; Valkyrie spews curses in cold outrage that resonate with Steve’s own views.

 Briefing adjourned, Steve heads to Bucky’s house, weary footsteps turning into an almost jog the nearer he gets. He raps gently on the door, the sound loud in the night’s silence. Steve winces, lest he is rousing Bucky from a sleep. He only needs a minute, merely a minute, to verify that Bucky is safe. It makes sense, or maybe it doesn’t, and Steve is just too exhausted to get himself under some sort of check.

 The door swings open; Bucky blinks, startled at the late visit, then positively puzzled when he ascertains that it is Steve. He’s well; cheeks pink, eyes bright, strands of his hair braided in the thin braids customary of the villagers of Asgard. Steve’s hand coils in a relieved fist. He lightly thuds it against the wall as he releases a wavering exhale.

 “Steve?” Bucky breathes, perplexed.

 “Did I wake you?” Steve asks in a small voice.

 “I– no, no.” Bucky shakes his head. “I didn’t know you were coming.” He grimaces, amending, “I _did_ , but not that fast.” His nose crinkles into a frown. “Are you all right?”

 “Yes, sure, yes,” Steve replies, nodding quickly.

 “Are we in danger?” Bucky questions, glancing behind Steve as though hordes of enemies will be rushing toward them in the distance.

  _No_. That’s the most immediate truth and it stumps Steve, who finds himself blubbering like an idiot, a little too tall, a little too clumsy, irrational in the dead of night over an emergency that technically is already under all the control any of them can exercise.

 “No,” he replies hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you. I talked to Thor and Valkyrie about Hydra, and I thought I’d come– I…” He scratches awkwardly at his rough stubble and hums out his frustration.

 Bucky drags his teeth over his lower lip and takes Steve’s wrist. He pulls him in, pushing the door closed with his foot and nudging him to a chair inside the kitchen.

 “They headed inside the Maze, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it,” Steve says feebly, raking his fingers through his hair.

 “Mm hm.” Bucky props his palm against the table.

 “They were heading east, maybe here,” Steve continues wearily. “It’ll take them twice as long now, if they survive. They have a witch, so we–” he shrugs– “we’re pretty certain at this point that they’re the ones after you.”

 “I know,” Bucky says calmly. “They told me about your letter.”

 Steve nods; of course they would have let Bucky know, and the specifics of it isn’t something Bucky needs Steve to get into, not now. “Right,” he murmurs. “Right. I’m sorry.” He bows his head and scrubs a hand over his face, tired and embarrassed.

 Gentle fingers lace through his hair. Bucky scratches Steve’s head softly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

 Steve tips his head back, hand curling around Bucky’s wrist. “I had to see–” He huffs out a breath, wincing at his ineffectual reasoning.

 Bucky, unheeding of Steve’s grip, slides his hand down Steve’s cheek in a caress. He draws closer, hair framing his stardust-speckled face as he cups his palm around Steve’s jaw. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

 Steve’s body arches forward; Bucky leans in a little. In a synchronized, fluid motion that maybe both of them have been preparing for with every brush and drawn-out touch, their lips lock into a slow, hypnotizing kiss. Shivers run down Steve’s spine; his limbs turn numb. He loses himself in Bucky’s taste, into his earthly scent of wood and grass mingled with soap. Bucky’s legs knock on Steve’s knees as he steps closer, his teeth pressing a nibble on Steve’s lip. In the mingling of their shuddering breaths, the moment feels like Steve’s infinity; his physical existence aligns with the very fabric of the universe, and everything that ever was or is loses all meaning, unimportant and worthless when the only thing that means anything is _this_.

 Bucky draws back a little, dragging his teeth over Steve’s lip before their mouths part completely. He slides his hand up to cup Steve’s neck, his touch scorching on Steve’s already flustered skin, and still Steve anchors himself on Bucky’s wrist as though letting go will make Bucky stop or disappear.

 “To clarify,” Bucky pants, breath hot against Steve’s mouth. “I’m reading this correctly, right?”

 “Very,” Steve musters, eyes darting down to Bucky’s wet lips. “Very.”

 He surges forward, cradling Bucky’s face in his palms, teeth clashing against teeth, nose mushing against nose, as their lips crush together in a messy, desperate kiss. Bliss collides with raw desire, and Bucky tangles flesh and metal fingers in Steve’s shirt, walking them backwards toward the bed. He knocks his legs against the wooden bedframe and twists his fist on Steve’s clothes to keep himself from falling, refusing to draw back from their breathless kiss. Steve lowers them down to the floor, climbing over Bucky as Bucky locks his ankles around Steve’s waist.

 Stopping for breath, Bucky gazes at Steve, dark eyes bright, skin dusted with stardust. He threads his fingers through Steve’s hair and draws him into yet another heated kiss, moaning when their tongues brush against each other. Steve arches forward, hips pushing against the bulge in Bucky’s crotch. He splays his hand on Bucky’s chest, sprinkles kisses on Bucky’s glistening neck and collarbone. Bucky whimpers when the kisses turn to nibbles, the sound firing straight down to Steve’s groin. Bucky tugs at Steve’s shirt and Steve shucks everything that hinders Bucky’s pleasure, pulling Bucky’s own shirt over his shoulders. He trails licks and kisses across Bucky’s clavicle, traces the tendrils of the raised scars from his arm.

 Bucky’s touches swiftly turn desperate as he clutches at Steve and trembles beneath him. He pulls himself together long enough to spring forward and bury his nose against Steve’s shoulder in a pant. He gives Steve’s neck a light bite, hand roaming down past Steve’s stomach to inch eagerly inside his pants.

 Steve sucks in a breath and breaks contact, halting Bucky’s initiative with a hurried and unsteady, “Wait.”

 It’s hard to stop, excruciating, when Bucky looks at him with eyes flashing with desire and affection, with his hair tousled by Steve’s own hands; when the soft shimmer that lines all his features seems to be bliss that’s come alive. His body is warm, his chest bobs up and down fast, and he is so impossibly beautiful that Steve almost forgets to breathe.

 “Are you…”

 “Am I what?” Bucky asks, voice high-pitched and cracking in impatience.

 “I…” Steve stammers awkwardly. “If you want to stop–”

 Bucky huffs out an exasperated whimper, indignant as he directs Steve’s hand down to his own groin, at the twitch of a very interested erection. “Does it _look_ like I want to stop?” He presses Steve’s hand against his bulge, eyelids fluttering and breath hitching at the pressure. His fingers cup Steve’s own erection and squeeze. A sly smirk dances on his face at Steve’s gasp. “Do _you_?”

 The answer is a sloppy kiss; it’s the shedding of any and all remaining clothing until skin touches hot skin, until hands rest on raised hips and fingers stroke, tease and prepare spots achingly sensitive.

 Steve pushes into Bucky slowly with a moan, stilling until the overwhelming feeling becomes familiar. Bucky’s fingernails dig grooves in Steve’s skin, his eyes wide in a mix of shock and reverence. Slowly, Steve begins to move, and Bucky lets out a cry, throwing his head back, tendons straining in his neck. He dazedly manages to fix his eyes on Steve, his face glimmering with sweat and stardust, his throat moving as he gasps for air.

 “If you want to stop,” Steve musters, his words shuddering.

 “Don’t you dare,” Bucky breathes. He curls his hand around the back of Steve’s neck, his grip vise-hard. He pulls Steve down in an erratic kiss, his body shivering as Steve’s hands slowly slide down Bucky’s thighs.

 They find a synchronized rhythm, bodies in tune as they writhe and shift, lips dragging over burning skin, fingers pressing, squeezing and clawing in a haze as their lust spirals higher with every thrust. Bucky pulls uncontrollably at Steve’s sweat-damp hair, his legs locked tightly around Steve’s waist. Steve’s fingers slip down to Bucky’s groin, teasing, circling and rubbing and Bucky whimpers, ravished and ravishing as his legs twitch.

 Heat seeps out of Bucky, rivaled only by the fire ignited within Steve. He presses messy kisses on Bucky’s raw lips, his movements growing fast and reckless. An iridescent hue mists all around them at Steve’s climactic cry, at Bucky’s simultaneous ‘Oh gods’ that sounds ripped out of his very soul, bodies pressing together in jerks and shudders.

 Heedless of any stickiness, Steve crumples against Bucky with a heavy pant, shivering when Bucky cards his hand through Steve’s hair. He lifts his hips to pull out, but Bucky stops him, the pressure of his legs on Steve’s thighs keeping him still.

 The morning comes too soon, the unforgiving light of day jostling Steve into an abrupt awakening. Bucky, now lying beside him, blinks drowsily at him, and Steve presses himself close. He wraps his arm around Bucky’s waist, mushing his face against Bucky’s silver shoulder.

 “I can’t stay long this time,” Steve murmurs, words muffled as his mouth drags over metal. “Just a couple days, and then…” He lets out a sigh. “I don’t want to go,” he says, his voice small, the words slipping out like a plea or prayer before he can swallow them back down.

 Bucky draws back and shifts onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. A soft smile stretches on his lips as he traces his fingers over the stubble on Steve’s jaw. “You’ll come back.”

 Steve lets out a breath, cradling Bucky’s hand in his to kiss his fingertips. “As soon as I can.”

 “I know,” Bucky says gently.

 “I wish…” Steve trails off with a head shake; dwelling on things that are unfeasible is meaningless. “You’re always with me,” he says in an almost whisper.

 Bucky huffs out a snort, turning Steve’s constellation-scarred palm over to affirm Steve’s point. He shoots a tight-lipped smile of apology at Steve, curling his fingers above Steve’s own.

 Steve lowers his eyebrows. “In my heart,” he remarks flatly. “I meant you’re in my heart.”

 Bucky hums, pleased, and gives Steve’s hand a squeeze.

 It doesn’t matter, not too much, if it’s two days for now, if it’s more or even less time later. Now that promises change lips through sweet and rougher kisses, now that Steve’s deep wishes manifest into truth, the when and where of it are just challenges; hindering, but in the long run insignificant, when Steve knows he can and will always go back to Bucky’s arms.

~*~

 Fall turns to winter, which turns to the return of a shyly peeking spring. Grass and flowers that have long waited to bloom now take their chance. The sun chases away the heavy clouds with renewed vigor, and everyone’s steps turn a little lighter.

 Bucky makes use of the good weather to take his training up to his favorite oak tree hill, its height and open air location freeing and refreshing. He makes acquaintances of animals and creatures that sneak out of the forest to inspect or watch, occasionally employing their assistance to practice sneak attacks using his hidden knives.

 He’s thrusting a long knife into thin air when the young raven visits, swooping down on the ground with a greeting croak. Bucky wipes his brow with the cuff of his sleeve and flips back his braid.

 “Hey you.”

 The raven flies up on Bucky’s shoulder, cawing in his ear so loud that Bucky winces. It is a language that he doesn’t speak or understand per se, but he can read intentions and so communicate with most beings. He’s explained this time and time again, both using words and by trying to impart his meaning, but the raven never ceases cawing in his ear, as though this will make the message clearer.

 “Now?” Bucky asks.

 The raven gurgles in response.

 “Thank you,” Bucky says, brushing his fingers along the bird’s feathers. “Steve’s coming,” he tells his companion, who leans against the oak tree and acts thoroughly uninterested to the proceedings. “I’m gonna go.”

 “I am Groot.”

 Bucky hums, pushes his knife back in its sheath and trots away.

 The raven leaves his shoulder halfway down the hill and Bucky picks up speed, boots stomping on the ground, braid flying behind him as he crosses small farms and makes it to the village. He spies the gates closing shut so he turns to the stables, skin burning with excitement and heart beating enamored in the rhythm of a fond song.

 Past the marketplace, down the tavern and at the stables, Steve carefully removes the saddle off of his horse. Grinning, Bucky takes off in a sprint. The sound of his footsteps catches Steve’s attention and makes him turn. Steve lights up at once, the sun personified on the face that Bucky loves the most. Bucky jumps at him and Steve catches him, lips crashing together, chests pressed against each other tightly. Bucky’s arms loop around Steve’s neck, his legs winding around Steve’s waist. He wraps up the kiss with a dragging bite on Steve’s lip which makes Steve chuckle, his giddy smile mirrored by Bucky.

 “Down, boy,” Valkyrie drawls as she appears, her boots dragging against gravel and hay.

 Bucky huffs out a giggle against Steve’s nose and slides down on his feet. He rubs the prickling skin around his mouth, the aftermath of the collision with Steve’s stubble.

 “He was literally here a few days ago,” Valkyrie remarks, unimpressed.

 “Was he?” Bucky asks, breathless in mock doubt, as Steve answers with a teasing, “ _Was_ I?”

 Valkyrie stares at them, her gaze between a snarky comment and outright murder. She settles on shaking her head. “Ridiculous,” she mutters, turning to grab the saddle for her horse.

 And it _is_ , a little, but Bucky will take _ridiculous_ over the widespread jumpiness that’s been hanging in the air since Hydra’s disappearance into the Maze. In the no-news, no-sightings quiet limbo, everyone seems to be biding their time, preparing for the conflict that should have come months ago.

 In this faux peacetime, Steve and Bucky make the most of each moment. Souls and bodies unite, bare, willing and vulnerable, needing and needed, exhilarating and familiar. The world lives on, and Bucky with it, with the added advantage of having Steve in his arms.

 It’s a balmy night up on the hill, allowing for a picnic that grows intimate. Moonbeams and starlight dance across Steve’s naked chest as he pulls on his pants, and Bucky follows the move of his muscles in quiet wonder. He loosely loops his arms around his knees and tilts his head, raising his eyes at the sky. The stars huddle together in their twinkling ocean, basking inside the love of Mother Moon. The sight would have made Bucky’s heart clench in distress not long ago, would have prodded the bleak emptiness inside him that he found difficult to console. Not long ago, Bucky was lost and drifting. Now, watching Steve grapple with the grass sticking to his feet, glancing down at the small village, he sees the bubble of life that he’s carved for himself, and the sight of the stars makes him nothing but nostalgic.

 Steve accomplishes his mission with a triumphant grunt. He plops down beside Bucky and studies him, silent before he presses a kiss against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says, his response to Bucky’s stargazing.

 Bucky’s mouth stretches in a smile. “It’s not so bad.” He takes in Steve’s starlit face, his earnestly kind eyes, the soft shadow of stubble on his cheeks and chin. He captures Steve’s lips into a languid kiss that tastes of salt and wine. “Not bad at all,” he murmurs against Steve’s mouth. He grins irreverently before he remarks, “Being a mass of gas and fire is overrated.”

 Steve snorts a startled laugh. He falls to the ground on his back, shifting to get comfortable.

 Bucky props himself against the oak. “Tell me a story.”

 Steve hums. “It truly honors me that you think I’ve more of them to tell.”

 “You _have_?” Bucky replies in mock surprise. “I thought you had already resorted to stringing random words together hoping that they’d somehow make sense.”

 “Ooh…” Steve shakes his head with a half-grin.

 “I still like them?” Bucky offers.

 “Is that a question?” Steve counters. He _oomphs_ when Bucky pokes him in the ribs. He clears his throat before he starts, folding his hands over his stomach. “Once there lived a man, self-involved and abrasive, wealthy but stingy with his wealth, and desperately, dreadfully lonely. Come spring, and with the aid of a dark wizard, he resolved to give life to a companion created out of blooms, fair as he pleased and compliant to all his wishes. Taking to the meadows with his young maid, together they gathered beautiful, fresh flowers, geraniums and lilies, hellebores and bleeding hearts, assembling them into a vaguely humanoid shape.”

 “What, no forget-me-nots?” Bucky teases lightly.

 Steve rolls his eyes, but continues with his story. “The wizard breathed life into the stems and conjured up a woman, human in all but one: her hair was vines and leaves, petals and fully bloomed flowers, that reached down to her back and changed colors alongside the seasons. They, as well as she, were wont to wither in winter frost, should her companion, the old man, not protect her. And he didn’t. The woman, unsuspecting and naïve at first, soon gained an agency of her own. She didn’t keep up with the man’s demands, refusing to give him the pleasure of her company when his attitude was cruel and heartless. She would instead slip into the staff quarters and spend time with the kind, timid maid who worked in the house. Come winter, the man, cross at how he’d been treated, let the woman die, watching with perverse contentment as the blooms in her hair wilted and fell. When the last petal was gone, the woman crumbled into ash and soil.”

 Bucky makes a grimace of discontent, but knows for certain that the story –as all of Steve’s stories– has a happy ending. He gently cards his fingers through Steve’s hair, caressing it idly as he listens.

 “Through tears, the maid carefully gathered what remained of the woman,” Steve says, leaning into Bucky’s touch, “the delicate remains of the flowers, the brittle, dry stems, and held on to them, waiting for spring and coming up with plans. She sold all her belongings, gathered what money she could, and asked the dark wizard to once again breathe the woman to life. The money was too little, and the wizard refused, but still the young maid persisted. She left her master and roamed the land, trying to find a witch or wizard strong enough to help her. None could be found,” he adds.

 Bucky groans, thudding his head against the tree trunk.

 “After her many futile travels, she despaired,” Steve says. “Falling on her knees by a softly gurgling stream, she wept. Summer was coming to an end, and she would now have to bide her time until next spring. A gentle hand upon her shoulder made the maid look up. The Summer Spirit, resplendent in his golden glory, with eyes the fiery color of the sun, moved by the maid’s devotion, granted her wish. Out of the withered blooms, the flower-woman was revived, standing back to her old defiant self. Together the two women, hand in hand, travelled to warmer places where they’d be safe, and where they’d spend their lives in the happiness of their companionship for all the days that came.” He tilts his head to look at Bucky. “The end.”

 “Is this inspired by the Groot? I’m _not_ mocking your story,” Bucky adds quickly at the flash of retort in Steve’s eyes. “But flowers, twigs– sounds like a Groot without the Groot body.”

 “That’s a pretty big _without_ ,” Steve remarks. “Also Groot don’t exist anym–” He halts, his eyes growing wide at Bucky’s slow smirk. He sits up, stunned. “No.”

 “No?” Bucky challenges.

 At the rise of the next morning, Steve comes to meet Bucky’s friend, Groot. They wait for him at the hill, beside the oak tree, after Bucky’s cordial invitation to him via a perky sparrow.

 Steve is equal parts intrigued and mystified. “You could have mentioned,” he says for the tenth time since they were coherent enough to speak over their breakfast mugs of coffee.

 “It didn’t seem pertinent,” Bucky counters.

 Groot trudges his way out of the forest and slowly walks up to the oak, steps dragging and his face contorted with disgruntlement. Beady eyes glare accusingly at Bucky, who dared ask him to interrupt his morning. He flashes an even more accusing look at Steve, twiggy fingers turning his wooden snake cube around in his hands.

 “I am Groot,” he snaps at Bucky.

 Bucky giggles, and now two beings glare at him, Steve’s sourness almost matching Groot’s.

 “Buck,” Steve says sternly.

 “I didn’t know you thought they were mythical or _extinct_!” Bucky protests. “And he’s rather solitary, so why complicate his life?”

 “I am Groot,” Groot growls at Steve.

 “I am Steve,” Steve replies politely.

 Bucky sorely fails to hide his snort behind his palm. He coughs, regaining his composure. “Thank you for coming.”

 Groot makes a sound between a huff and a groan. He drops to the ground and sits against the oak, indifferent to all present company in favor of disassembling his cube.

 “Did I do something wrong?” Steve asks in a low voice.

 “No, Steve, he’s a teen,” Bucky says, sitting cross-legged on the grass. “He’s not up for much talking,” he adds as Steve sits down beside him. “I wasn’t either, when I met him. He came one day out of the forest and he just–” Bucky shrugs. “He sat with me when I’d watch the stars, back in the day.”

 “I am Groot,” Groot murmurs.

 “Well, you’re no better,” Bucky retorts.

 Steve shoots a dubious look at Bucky, then shakes his head. “Of course, right. This is Groot; you speak Groot.”

 “Mm hm,” Bucky confirms.

 “He wasn’t making introductions.”

 Bucky shakes his head and hums a ‘no’.

 “Was he cussing at me?”

 Bucky makes a noncommittal sound, shaking his hand in a so-so gesture.

 Steve nods, twisting his lips. “Next time you ask me for a story,” he says, “you’re giving one back in return. Clearly, you have more interesting things going on.”

 Bucky digs his teeth into his lower lip to keep himself from smiling. “But you’re a better storyteller.”

 “No, that won’t fly,” Steve assures.

 “No?” Bucky murmurs, leaning over to press a kiss on Steve’s lips.

 Steve tries to form words, but succumbs into the mingling of their breaths. Bucky reaches to cup Steve’s jaw and quickly aborts the motion, flinching when tiny but startlingly hard flowers pelt against his cheek. Steve draws back with a surprised sound, under the same kind of attack.

 “I am _Groot_ ,” Groot warns, tiny flowers threateningly sprouting off his arms and hands. “I am Groot,” he adds firmly.

 Bucky raises his palms in an apology, lips stretching into a bemused smile. “All right.”

 Steve huffs, then chuckles when Groot turns his glare to him. “What he said.” He points at Bucky.

 “Good choice.” Bucky pats Steve thigh with a doting grin, light-hearted in the beginning of what purports to be yet another good day.

~*~

 Wanda opens her eyes, mouth pinched into a frown as she pulls her shawl tight around her shoulders. The rough mountain ground is hard on her crossed legs, but she has no real will to join the remaining Hydra men currently crowding around the fire, sharing food. Her most recent failure –one of many– would only incur sneers. Wanda still sees it, their impatience and the loss of faith in her, even if it’s concealed by carefully neutral expressions. They fear her abilities, the nature of her powers that they themselves don’t understand, and thus remain respectful, always wary of her spontaneously turning them into frogs.

 Lately, she wishes she _could_ turn them into frogs.

 Footsteps sure and steady approach behind her. She knows who it is, the only person not scared of addressing her unprompted. She pulls her legs closer to her body, forces her shoulders into a straight, proud line.

 Brock’s boots appear in her peripheral vision, just short of knocking against Wanda’s knee.

 “I don’t know where it is,” she says roughly, her fingers cradling the scrying crystal hanging from her neck. “I can’t feel it.”

 Brock crouches to the ground. He presses two calloused fingers against Wanda’s chin, tilting her head so that they face each other eye to eye. His beard and thick black hair shine under the moonlight; his eyes burn with hate. “We’ve travelled for more than a year now,” he growls, “chasing after your lost star. We’ve travelled halfway across the land almost _twice_ , almost got captured by the Avengers, and now you’re telling me it’s gone? We lost men, mules, supplies–”

 “And you’d have lost much more if not for me,” Wanda replies stoutly. “I showed you the way out of the Maze.”

 “After we almost froze to death during the fucking winter!” Brock snaps.

 “I paved a way for us through an impassable mountain to bypass the Nova Corps,” Wanda continues. “I’m doing all I can. Don’t forget, I want this as much as you do.”

 “But you are telling me,” Brock says slowly, anger seeping into his words, “that we lost the star. That all of this has been for _nothing_.”

 “I am telling you that I cannot feel it,” Wanda says, “and that it’s too far for the crystal to find. Its heart belonged to Mother Moon and shone with starlight– this is what drew me to it. Now it belongs to someone else, another being, or maybe the star itself acquired agency. Or maybe it finally died.” She takes in a steady breath. “I suggest we head east, back to where the crystal pointed last.”

 “And what,” Brock retorts, “plough blindly through forests and fields trying to find it? Attract the attention of the Avengers, _again_?”

 “Maybe they have it,” Wanda remarks. “We don’t know. We _can’t_ know. It’s either that, or we stop altogether. And I don’t want to stop,” she adds, willing her voice to remain calm, begging her vengeance to keep fanning her heart’s flames.

 Brock holds her eyes for a tense, long moment. Then, he lets out a grunt and stomps away, leaving Wanda alone in silence, under the night sky that she violated and marred.

 Her brother probably would not approve.

 Her brother is also dead, and this is Wanda on her best behavior.

 She sends a plea for a kernel of forgiveness to his spirit, and closes her eyes. She curls her hand around her scrying crystal and tries again, just one more time after the hundreds of ‘one more time’s, to reach the starlight.


	3. Chapter 3

 It’s a buzzing night at the tavern. Ale and wine are in high demand, cheeses and jerkies coming and going in regular intervals. Numerous conversations run at once, blending together into just noise. The occasional exclamatory phrase rings high above the din, ranging from anticipatory “No!” and “Yes!” to more colorful variations such as, “Finding the body on the kitchen table was _unpleasant_!”

 Bucky takes a drink of his ale and moves his black piece down the checkers board. He captures Fandral’s white one and sets it on his pile of taken pieces.

 Fandral groans, dropping his head against his folded hands. “Why.”

 “Your move,” Bucky prompts. He props his chin against his hand, idly gazing out the open window.

 Fandral deliberates for longer than should be allowed. He gulps down half his ale and drags a white piece across the board.

 Bucky raises his eyebrows in bemusement; the piece is nearly a sacrifice to Bucky’s own, only not quite, since Fandral didn’t mean for it to be so. Bucky captures it and sets it upon his stash of victory.

 Fandral groans again, the sound mingling with a shrill cry and a string of curses from outdoors.

 “Bucky! The hell am I supposed to do?” he complains.

 Bucky shrugs, eyes drawn to the raised voices on the street. A man blabbers fervently about a possum or a skunk. A woman yells at him to fetch a broom and get his wits together. Bucky captures the third piece in a row in response to Fandral’s next move, as the broom in question struts by the window in his peripheral vision.

 “Why,” Fandral laments. “You keep winning–”

 His gaze darts to Bucky’s left, and Bucky turns. Valkyrie approaches their table, a smirk on her face and a bottle of wine in her hand.

 “I won _once_ and now he’s beat me three times in a row!” Fandral complains to her.

 “That’s because you’re drunk,” Valkyrie says, pointing at Fandral’s ale. “And when you’re drunk, you have _no fucking idea_ ,” she says, gesticulating, “what in the ever-loving hell you’re doing. It’s fun at first,” she concedes to Bucky, “but after a while it gets boring.”

 Fandral twitches. He reaches out and shoves aside the board pieces, effectively ending the game.

 Valkyrie nods, unimpressed. “Nice.”

 Bucky gets to his feet. “Thanks for the wins, have a headache-less morning,” he tells Fandral with a salute.

 “Careful, they’re chasing after something furry out there, apparently with sharp teeth.” Valkyrie, amused, sticks her index fingers against her mouth, mimicking sharp canines.

 “I’ll make sure to appear as anything but that,” Bucky assures with a cheeky grin.

 Back home, Bucky lights up a lamp, pulls back his hair into a braid and cleans the mess of mugs and bowls amassing on his table. He gathers the latest book Steve borrowed from his friend Sam’s library, grabs papers and a pencil and settles down to read and study language.

 A rap, then two, then a persistent tapping against the window above Bucky’s bed halt his plans.

 Bucky sets the book down, chair scraping against the floor as he stands up and pads toward the sound. He frowns at the round brown eyes that meet his, unsure of who is outside in the near darkness. He opens the window and takes a step back. Something small and furry –apparently with sharp teeth, as demonstrated at its indignant growl– tumbles onto Bucky’s bed. It –the raccoon, it’s a raccoon Bucky sees as his eyes tune in to its form– springs up on two short legs and haughtily straightens its clothes. It’s wearing _clothes_ , equipped with a belt teeming with knives and a truncheon, and what appears to be some kind of portable ballista.

 “To hell with those Asgardians and their fucking screeching and their fucking brooms!” the raccoon exclaims in a masculine voice. He looks at Bucky, eyes glaring with annoyance. “You’re Groot’s friend, right? The damn star?”

 Bucky opens his mouth to reply, but bewilderment overtakes his train of thought. There's little he finds impossible, but seeing an actual talking animal that communicates in human language is a first.

 The raccoon reaches up and snaps his fingers before Bucky’s face.

 “Yes, yes,” Bucky says with a small headshake. “That’s me. Is Groot all right?”

 “Groot’s fine, it’s me that’s been harassed tonight,” the raccoon mutters, passing a tiny hand between his ears. “He sent me to find you ‘cause I’m small, don’t stick out of place, but how the hell am I supposed to find you when by his description, you literally look like any other fucking person in this place? Long dark hair, yea tall, yea thin– well, la di fucking dah, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?” the raccoon rants. “Had to play spy all over the fucking village is what, that’s what.” He huffs out a vexed breath. “Fucking _my_ fault for trying to play nice, fucking Groot guilted me into it–”

 “Sorry, what’s happening?” Bucky interjects.

 “I – _hate_ – _humans_ is what’s happening,” the raccoon says, pointing his finger at Bucky. “They treat me like an adorable little oddity,” he spits mockingly, “or like a freaky monster for all the wrong reasons!”

 Bucky blinks. “The wrong…”

 “I could kill you ten different ways before your hand even touches my fur, and still the humans think I’m scary only because I _talk_!” the raccoon shouts.

 “But why are you _here_?” Bucky says, lips twitching in amusement that he feels is inappropriate. Should the raccoon detect it, Bucky is quite certain he _will_ kill Bucky ten different ways, even if Bucky doesn’t try to touch his fur.

 The raccoon shifts on Bucky’s sheets and sniffs his nose. “Came to warn you. Groot insisted, Groot’s my friend, so.” He heaves his shoulders in a shrug. “Here I am.”

 Bucky stills, expression falling as his heart gives out a lurch.

 “I was on my way back to see Groot, we have a long friendship of– anyway–” the raccoon waves dismissive hand– “and lo and behold, who other do I bump into, but the ‘dreaded band of Hydra’,” he says, audible quotes around the phrase in his scornfully spooky tone.

 Bucky sucks in a sharp breath, though this is what he expected.

 “Yeah, yeah,” the raccoon says flippantly. “I was awed, just _a little_ , because these guys are pretty close to a ghost story. I swear I’ve overheard parents threaten their children to go to bed or else they’ll let Hydra snatch them. Horrible. Anyway, I tell Groot, because it’s the highlight of my journey, Groot has a fit, tells me about you, and here I am to warn you, because apparently Hydra is looking for their fallen star.” He folds his arms in front of his chest. “I’m done,” he says at Bucky’s gaping. “Can I go now?”

 “Did they say that? Do you _know_ that?” Bucky asks hurriedly. “That they’re looking for–”

 “For a star, yes, didn’t you _know that_ already?” the raccoon replies derisively.

 Bucky did and didn’t, but now he knows for sure– if the raccoon is to be trusted. Still, Bucky trusts Groot, and Groot trusts the raccoon, so there’s not much leeway for debate. “How far are they?”

 “I don’t know if they’re coming here,” the raccoon drawls. “They seemed to be heading _hereabouts_ , but not necessarily _here_. They could make a left and go to Ironshield, take a right and slip sideways to–”

 “But if they _are_ ,” Bucky insists, “how far?”

 “They don’t have horses, and they have a lot of baggage,” the raccoon says. “They go on foot, but are also armed with heavy weapons. I’d say about ten days, given what I know of human speed. Which isn’t a lot, not a lot at all,” he mutters to himself.

 “Anything else?” Bucky urges.

 “Not that I can think of,” the raccoon replies.

 “Thank you,” Bucky says earnestly. “I have to go.”

 “Yes, go do your thing, save yourself and all that.” The raccoon throws one leg after the other over the ledge, climbing over the window. “Godspeed, twinkle twinkle, little star,” he mumbles, jumping to the ground.

 Hands gripping at the shutters, Bucky says, “Wait– what do I call you?”

 The raccoon turns, his startled expression quickly turning wary. “Rocket.”

 Bucky nods. “I’m Bucky.”

 “I fucking know, you fucki–”

 Bucky slams the shutters shut and doesn’t hear the rest. Scrambling, he flies out of the house, doubling up speed when the door thuds closed behind him. The few people still on the streets or in their yards glance at him oddly. Stray strands of hair unravel from his braid and gravel crunches noisily underneath his boots as he dashes straight to the tavern in hopes of finding Valkyrie.

 He bursts through the door of the tavern and comes to a halt, eyes flickering over familiar faces as his lungs try to refill themselves with a dull ache. He spots Valkyrie as she spots him. The self-assured grin on her face morphs into agape concern at Bucky’s state.

 “Thor,” Bucky pants at her once she’s within hearing distance. “Thor– we need–” He shakes his head. “Hydra is close.”

 Thor listens attentively and Valkyrie curses as Bucky informs them of the events of the night. It is agreed that calling upon Steve –an ally, a Captain that needs to call upon the Avengers and his Guard– is common sense, tactical reasoning, Thor ties a note to his fastest raven and bids it to find Steve.

 The raven opens its dark wings and flies up into the sky, a blurry, rapid speck that soon blends in with the darkness. Bucky digs his teeth into his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, eyes following the bird until it’s no longer visible. His chest is heavy, stomach filled with lead, his muscles tingling in alertness, but still, a tiny glimmer of relief laces his heart at seeing the raven go; because Steve is coming; because Bucky is selfish; because if this is it, if it’s about damn time for the day of reckoning, he needs to see Steve one last time. He needs Steve to be the last thing that he sees.

~*~

 Steve travels to Asgard in record speed, heart easing up only when he verifies that the village isn’t by any chance surrounded by foes or burned to ashes.

 He kindly asks the guards to attend to Pony and rushes off to Bucky’s house. He knocks roughly on the door a few times, then gives up and makes for Thor’s house. At the first knock the door flies open, and Steve is at once relieved and startled to see Bucky. It’s been a while since he’s looked like this, dark under eye circles on a pale face sporting stubble, hair sticking out of a flimsy braid as though Bucky’s run his hand through it one too many times. Bucky’s mouth twists into a line that’s less a smile, more a grimace. He surges forward to cup Steve’s neck in a strong grip, dragging Steve’s lips into a kiss that’s both fond and frantic. He kisses Steve as though he might not kiss him again, his body vibrating with fear, lust and affection; Steve’s stomach squirms for it.

 Steve gently breaks the kiss. He threads gentle fingers through Bucky’s hair, his gaze steady on Bucky’s bloodshot eyes.

 “Thor and Valkyrie are inside,” Bucky says hoarsely as he sidesteps to make space for Steve.

 Around the long table in Thor’s living quarters, Steve is filled in on the developments. A serious Thor, a troubled but determined Bucky, and a no-nonsense Valkyrie discuss the information provided by a talking animal.

 “Rocket the rabbit–”

 “Raccoon,” Bucky corrects wearily.

 “Rocket the raccoon was very generous with his knowledge,” Thor says. “Even though apparently the villagers took to him with pitchforks.”

 Steve opens his mouth, fingers splayed open on the table as he fumbles for words. Failing to discern if the right question is ‘ _How can he talk’,_ or ‘ _Did he learn the human language’,_ or ‘ _Did someone do this to him or is it yet another thing I had no clue about’_ , he dismisses his befuddlement with a headshake. “Okay,” he says instead.

 “I’m…” Bucky lets out a small exhale, lips pursed together as his eyes pass over the three people on the table. “I’m going to draw them out,” he says. “Away.”

 Thor shoots a meaningful look at Valkyrie, who looks unfazed. Evidently, they had expected a grand statement of the sort and take it in stride, unlike Steve who winces.

 Valkyrie drops back against her chair, crossing her arms. “I assume you came up with that brilliant idea all on your own.”

 “Our army is at the ready,” Thor says. “They have been briefed. We can go after Hydra as soon as they are out of hiding.”

 “But if they are coming _here_ –” Bucky starts.

 “We can hold them off,” Thor replies firmly.

 “It’s unfair _to the village_ ,” Bucky insists, close to a shout as he slams his hand against the table for emphasis. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me for this long, and for what? To lose your people, your supplies, to a fight that–”

 “Hydra is a plague upon this land, has been for decades, and you’re one of ours,” Thor asserts. The definitive tone of his statement and the ease with which he gives Bucky a place to belong effectively leaves Bucky at a loss for words. “All the more reason to be done with them once and for all. It is unfortunate that you are inadvertently the bait in all of this, but this is what it’s come to and we must act accordingly.” He looks at Steve, then back at Bucky. “The plan was always to face them together.”

 “It was never _my_ plan,” Bucky asserts.

 “ _Your_ plan is an idiotic suicide mission,” Valkyrie remarks. “We’re wasting time even debating it. This isn’t something you can or should be doing alone.”

 “We should go to the Stronghold,” Steve cuts in.

 Thor looks at him, surprised; Valkyrie glares. Bucky lowers his eyebrows in a frown, clearly not having considered this as a potential course of action.

 “You came all this way just to go back,” Thor says dubiously. “Send for the soldiers to come to Asgard.”

 “The Stronghold has better defenses,” Steve retorts. “Both natural in way of the river and the advantageous height of the hill, and in actual weaponized defenses. I can assemble the Avengers and the Guard, and Tony has these experimental weapons–”

 Valkyrie lets out a derisive snort. “Of course he does.”

 “I _just_ tried them in extensive testing sessions, they work,” Steve contends. “Hydra won’t attack Asgard for no good reason– they haven’t attacked anyone, far as we know. They’re being very specific in their mission.” At that, he can’t help but glance at Bucky. “We’ll take to the wilderness, avoid the beaten path. It’ll take a little longer, but we’ll have less chance of being detected than on the road.”

 “Then take some of our soldiers,” Thor insists. “They can assist you.”

 Steve shakes his head. “We’ll just attract attention. Keep them, in case Hydra’s coming this way. And keep the Stronghold posted.” He presses his scarred palm firmly on the table, a constellated mark that feels like the beginning and the ending of a chapter. “It’s the best way. Not the _only_ way,” he says, looking at Valkyrie, “but the strongest way. If Hydra _is_ to attack directly, Ironshield is our best bet. Wasn’t our best bet for keeping you hidden,” he tells Bucky, “what with how populated it is, but it _is_ our best bet to keep you alive and win against Hydra.”

 Bucky inhales a long breath that he holds in puffed cheeks. He scrubs his hand over his face as he exhales. “Yes, all right.”

 “We should leave now,” Steve says. “If you open the back gate, we can skip the main road altogether, cross the meadows under the cover of darkness, so that we can be close to shelter and rest when it gets light.”

 Thor nods. “Leave your horse here, he is weary. You’ll take two of ours.”

 Valkyrie scrapes her chair back, propping her fists against the table as she stands. “I’ll reinforce the guards at key locations. You,” she tells Steve, “you better be right. And you,” she looks pointedly at Bucky. “I taught you well.” With that, she leaves.

 Thor scratches his beard, lips quirking into a smile. “That means she wants neither of you to die.”

 “I’d hope so,” Steve says with a soft snort.

 “Come,” Thor says. “We need to get everything ready.”

 In a short time Steve and Bucky are off, mounted on sturdy steads and carrying as little as possible. It’s easy enough to guide the horses in the dark under the starlight, allowing for rest in daylight in turns, one of them sleeping while the other keeps watch. It’s trickier to do the same once they enter wooded territory. Thick foliage frequently shuts out the light of the stars, making the ride precarious, the horses prone to tripping on fallen branches and tree roots that Steve can’t quite see on time. Bucky’s night vision is infinitely better, but even _he_ lacks a panoramic viewpoint. Thus, every scuffling, rustling sound from places unseen is cause for worry, nerves over whether it’s a foe, a dangerous creature, or a harmless nocturnal animal. Steve and Bucky quickly resort to traveling during the day, hoping that the improbability of their route is enough to either shield them or provide them with a tactical advantage.

 On the dusk of the third day, they leave the cover of the woods behind and yet again come across open terrain, save for the traditionally avoided Moss Woods across the plain. The horses are significantly happier about this, trotting toward a stream with an ease previously forgotten, eager to drink the cool water. They need a rest, so Steve and Bucky dismount in an agreement settled on through quiet nods, stretching their sore limbs after uninterrupted hours of riding.

 Steve rubs his palms together, scoping the location with a furrowed brow.

 Bucky watches him for a moment. “What?”

 “We should keep going,” Steve replies.

 Bucky raises his eyebrows. “We can’t keep going, the horses can’t take it. I’m not so sure _we_ can take it, not for long.”

 “It’s going to get cold out here at night, there’s no shelter,” Steve says. “And we can’t light a fire with no cover.”

 Bucky points toward the woods. “There’s your cover. Let’s go in deep, find a clearing, light a fire, then be set.”

 Steve grimaces, scratching awkwardly his scruffy jaw. “We can’t go in there, that’s the Moss Woods.” To Bucky’s blank look, he adds, “No one goes in there.”

 Bucky tilts his head, perplexed. “That’s a shortcut. That’s a shortcut to Ironshield,” he insists to Steve’s noncommittal sound. “Through _natural cover_ , and you’re telling me you prefer crossing through open terrain? Over this?”

 “We don’t…” Steve huffs out an exhale. “It’s the nymphs’ woods! With the nymphs’ lake!” To Bucky’s stare of sheer incomprehension, he adds, “And it’s strewn with cryptids!”

 “…Yes,” Bucky states flatly.

 “It’s– it’s…” Steve shakes his head, a little embarrassed. “They’re said to be poisonous, and–”

 Bucky cuts Steve off with a startled laugh, but quickly sobers up under Steve’s glare. “Oh, you’re serious.”

 “And then there’s the nymphs’ lake, we can’t cross that without a boat,” Steve says. “We can’t cross it at all, because of the _nymphs_.”

 “The lake nymphs,” Bucky echoes, grinning as he bounces on his heels.

 “They’re dangerous,” Steve maintains. “They’re part of the boogeyman lore–”

 “I sure am glad you didn’t tell me _those_ stories.”

 Steve narrows his eyes. “I had _nightmares_ about the nymphs as a kid, they were the villains of our street games.”

 “The _nymphs_?” Bucky says, incredulous.

 Steve licks his lips. “And the cryptids. And the hydra. The creature, not the group. Well, _and_ the group,” he amends. “The point is, it would be reckless to try and challenge either the nymphs or the cryptids–”

 “The point _is_ ,” Bucky cuts in, “’we’re not challenging _anyone_. I assure you, both are nothing to worry about. Now if _you_ would rather sleep out here and freeze, or ride the horses to their death, or risk being seen in open land when there’s a safer choice, be my–” He falters, impatience and indignation wrestling on his face. He lets out a high-pitched groan under the acquiescence that he’s not about to leave Steve on his own. “Come on, Steve,” he gripes.

 Steve stares at him, wavering a little. “Is this a _star’s view_ occasion?”

 “Yes!” Bucky exclaims.

 Reluctantly, Steve takes hold of the horses’ reins and follows a smug Bucky into the woods. In the not quite silence and not quite sound, the woods, devoid of any other obvious life, seem to breathe in, collective deep inhales and exhales that send small shivers down Steve’s spine.

 “I swear,” Bucky says, oblivious to the eeriness, taking loose hold of Steve’s free hand, “if I were aware of how you travelled to Asgard before this, I’d have cut the time it takes you to get there by half.”

 “Let’s make it out alive first, then you can move to gloating,” Steve grumbles.

 Bucky bumps his shoulder against Steve’s, lips stretching into a grin. Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he means his statement.

 They light a small fire when they settle. The horses doze off as Bucky roasts vegetables and Steve tries and fails to sleep through the first shift. He gives up and joins Bucky soon, returns his soft smile and accepts the stick carrying slices of peppers and carrots, sprinkled with pear pieces due to Bucky’s innovative experiments.

 “It’s not an experiment, all the younglings do it,” Bucky says, taking a bite of his food. “And there’s your cryptids.”

 Steve spins his head at the direction of Bucky’s gesture. He hasn’t heard any paw steps or rustling, still doesn’t hear it as two small creatures pad forward, somehow silent over the dry earth and crunchy leaves. Steve blinks, thinking what he sees is distorted due to the flames, but the sight doesn’t change even as he shields his eyes and squints. A feline creature takes hesitant steps towards them, along with an even more hesitant narwhal; only, both creatures look plucked out of the drawing of someone who didn’t quite know what these animals look like. The feline resembles a big cat in size, but possesses ears that trail the ground and a short soft-looking beak. The presence of the narwhal itself is off, it being that it’s on land in the first place. It slithers its way forward like an overstuffed snake, its tusk corkscrew-shaped and thick, ending in a pointed tip. Unconventional anatomy aside, it’s the color of the feline’s fur and the narwhal’s skin that Steve can’t comprehend. Patches of them change with their every move –their every _breath_ – the darkest blue that Steve has ever seen blending into soft purples and twirling greens, waves of teal melting into planes of startling emerald. Colors blend into colors seamlessly, and no matter how hard Steve looks, no matter how long he keeps himself from blinking, he is unable to trace the process of the change.

 “They smelled the food.”

 Bucky’s voice jostles Steve out of his agape staring. He gives himself a shake, eyes crinkling doubtfully at Bucky’s initiative to pick off a carrot from his stick and hold it out.

 “They won’t hurt us,” Bucky says, waiting patiently for the animals to sniff their way toward his hand.

 “How do you know?” Steve asks.

 “It’s not their intention.” Bucky smiles as the feline takes the final step and sniffs Bucky’s fingers with its currently azure beak. “They’re as wary as you are, they just can’t say it.” He lets out a soft giggle when the feline catches the carrot. The narwhal is more reserved, almost hiding behind the feline’s bushy tail, tracking Bucky’s moves. Bucky takes off a piece of pepper and holds it out for the narwhal’s inspection.

 Another creature makes its way out of the foliage, a tarsier as round as a puffer fish, with an oversized rooster’s comb. Bolder than its fellow friends, it hops its way to Steve, its big round eyes luminescent in the light of the fire. It stops and twitches every couple hops, reading the terrain, its thin tail coiling and uncoiling around its legs. With one last hop, it lands on Steve’s thigh, claws pressed inside his skin as the creature retains its balance and makes a grab for Steve’s food. Steve holds still in caution and fascination, and lets the creature have it, watching it consume the roasted food in nibbles.

 Bucky, beside him, chuckles, having enticed his own narwhal to the piece of pepper.

 “What are they?” Steve breathes.

 Bucky shrugs. “It’s said they are the children of the joining of the ocean and the earth, born under the blessing of the heavens.” He flashes Steve a cheeky grin, aware of the impossibility of his statement. “So it is said.”

 Steve stares at him for a long moment. “Some day you have to tell me these stories,” he says, getting accustomed to the small animal on his thigh eating away at his dinner.

 Bucky smirks. “Some day.”

 Steve itches to draw the mysterious animals, recreate them as he sees them in real life rather than later through his fuzzed, unavoidably not picture-perfect memories, but circumstances don’t allow for such indulgence. They make quick work of their dinner, unregrettably shared between two humans and three creatures that change colors akin to the sea and land during the sun’s ride and the moon’s phases. Steve quickly puts out the fire as Bucky gathers their supplies back into bags. They resolve to take turns on their sleeping as per usual, but in the sheltered Moss Woods, they can allow themselves the luxury of doing so while huddling next to each other. Their cryptid friends seem to feel welcome, or they decide to welcome Steve and Bucky into _their_ home; they take up various places around the impromptu camp and doze off, their colors swirling and blending serenely as their breathing slows down.

 In his turn to keep watch, Steve sits cross-legged next to Bucky, absently caressing his long hair. He takes in the magnificent rare creatures that scared him mere hours ago, and thinks himself as lucky amid the adversity.

 The creatures rouse awake one by one when dawn breaks, weak through the thick canopy of the wild, tall trees. They blink their bleary eyes at Steve, stretch, yawn and emit barely audible noises as they furrow back deep into the woods. Steve watches them go with a smile, then bends to plant a peck on Bucky’s neck, brushing his left side to wake him. With incoherent mumbling, Bucky shifts to grab Steve’s hand and tug it to his chest. After deliberating for a moment, he opens his eyes to look up at Steve with a scowl.

 Steve smooths the curl on Bucky’s lips with a slow kiss. “Get up,” he says, patting Bucky’s thigh as he reclaims his hand from Bucky’s grip. “We’ve lake nymphs to devour us yet.” He mostly jokes this time.

 Mostly.

 The deeper into the Moss Woods they walk, a deeper kind of darkness they find, the sun rays getting swallowed before they reach the ground. The foliage is foreboding; no cryptids pay any visits, nothing makes its presence known through any sound. At this point, Bucky and Steve wouldn’t be able to be found even if they wanted to, not by Hydra, not but _anyone_. The seclusion of their location makes civilization seem far away. It could be morning, or maybe evening –Steve would have no way to know if it weren’t for his internal approximate count of the time that passes. For all his own misgivings and uneasiness, Bucky ploughs on with ease and calmness, and so Steve follows.

 Eventually the darkness gives way to a perpetual muted green dusk, a light that looks filtered through moss and kelp. Steve is quite willing to believe they’ve entered some kind of negative zone, where time bears no meaning to existence.

 “It’s a little like that,” Bucky says when Steve voices his ruminations. “In the nymphs’ territory, it’s always dusk.”

 “Oh, we’re in nymph territory already!” Steve exclaims. “Excellent.”

 Bucky snorts out laugh and smacks Steve in the ribs.

 On foot, as it is unwise to ride horses on this terrain, Bucky threads his cool metal fingers through Steve’s as they walk. Soon the oppressiveness of the monotony gives way to soothing repetition –step, step, branch, step, step, root– bringing about a complacency of safety.

 The loud silence is interrupted by a distant song. It’s not in any language that Steve knows; he isn’t even certain that there are words to it, that it is not just humming or high-pitched harmonies.

 Toward the sound they go, treading over leaves, branches and earth until the thickness of the woods gives way to a glade. Here, the song is loud and melodious, akin to lyres and harps had they had vocal cords. The song mingles with splashing water, in a lake that stretches onwards as far as Steve can see. Pale water lilies bob along, their colors muted as all else that lies around. Weeping willows surround the lake, their drooping leaves touching the surface or diving under.

 In the lake are the fabled nymphs. Watching them is like looking at the world from underwater, a dream –and not Steve’s nightmare– seen through a kaleidoscope of green, grays and blues. Bodies the faintest hues of laurel and stone dive in and out of sight. Scaly tails in gray and turquoise cover the lower half of their forms, splitting into two fins at the ends.

 Bucky lets go of Steve’s hand and steps to the edge, crouching low as the nymphs glance at him in interest. Two of them swim swiftly towards him, revealing long pointy fangs when they smile. The moss-haired nymph props her forearms on land and grins merrily up at him. Short fins jut out from her forearms, wooden ligaments protrude off her joints, flexible and as natural as Bucky’s metal arm.

 Bucky pulls his shirt sleeve up to his elbow and lowers his hand toward the lake, fingers lightly touching the surface. The nymphs splash their tails delightedly and giggle, reaching out to slowly stroke Bucky’s forearm and wrist. The veins along their hands are raised, dark; they run up to their arms and shoulders and meet on their clavicles to form intricate patterns that cover parts of their bare chests and torsos.

 The nymphs let out a few more gleeful sounds, touching and releasing Bucky’s hand. Steve lets go of the horses’ reins and walks closer, his footsteps slow in his intrigued but wary state.

 Bucky gives Steve a soft smile, holding out his metal hand in invitation. Taking it, Steve crouches, eyes trained on Bucky’s hand still in the water.

 “It’s a greeting,” Bucky says. “Like a handshake.”

 Steve pulls back his own sleeve and cautiously touches the murky water, too dark to reveal the lake’s depth or what lies beneath. The nymph closest to him peeps, excited. She touches his forearm in a quick caress before dipping her hand back into the water, accidentally sprinkling droplets on Steve’s face.

 Bucky huffs out a chuckle, strands of his hair waving under his breath. The nymph squeaks happily and swims back to the willows.

 The moss-haired nymph that still keeps Bucky and Steve company releases Bucky’s hand to prop her elbow on the ground. She watches the other nymphs play with each other, her tail flicking in and out of the water. A new nymph crosses the lake and the moss-haired nymph squeals. She circles her hand around Bucky’s ankle, throwing off his balance as she points at the fresh arrival. She turns to Bucky, expectant, asking him a wordless question. Bucky gives her a smirk that satisfies her. She splashes her tail once and lets go of Bucky’s ankle, turning to watch her chosen nymph.

 “Chummy,” Steve remarks, amused.

 “I know their secrets,” Bucky replies with a smile.

 Steve raises his eyebrows. “They know who you are?”

 “Yes.”

 “Huh.” Steve’s gaze follows the nymphs in their games and lounging.

 “We’re fine here, Stevie,” Bucky says softly. “It’s humans that are scary.”

 Steve cocks his head with a grimace, not sure he can refute the statement. He looks out at the lake, assessing. “How do we cross?”

 The nymph perks up at Steve’s question. She makes a cooing sound, eyes perplexed and fixed on Bucky.

 Bucky presses his lips together with a hum. “We’ll have to leave the horses. The nymphs can lend us a raft, but it won’t fit them.”

 “Where is it?” Steve asks. “The raft.”

 Bucky shrugs, making a high-pitched noncommittal sound.

 Steve narrows his eyes.

 “They’ll bring it along,” Bucky replies vaguely. “Come on.” He pats Steve’s thigh as his nymph friend dives in the lake and calls at the others. “Let’s get our things.”

 Steve swallows down the inquiries for later; they’ve come this far, and there is no way to go further than to do as Bucky –and the nymphs– say. Sharing their bags between the two of them, Steve hoists his shield behind his back and nudges the horses to return to Asgard.

 Echoes of calls and chirrups come from down the lake. Trees rustle in the distance, as though something big touches them and shakes them up; leaves crunch in places hidden from sight, and unseen things fall into the lake, causing splashes. Soon, nymphs appear in the distance and swim closer, carrying forth a small raft. It’s barely long or wide enough for two people, a creation made out of tree logs held together by vines and moss. The rustling and the crunching might have involved getting the raft together ready _now_ , through maybe a little forest magic. Steve glances toward Bucky in suspicious question.

 Bucky doesn’t return the look, but his lips twitch. “We might have to get a little wet.”

 Promptly, he takes off his boots and socks, folds his pants up as high as they go. Steve mirrors him, as nymphs crowd around the raft and keep it steady. Bucky climbs on, legs swinging over each side, feet dipping in the lake. The raft jostles a little when Steve follows, the water warm as it caresses his ankles and calves. He settles in, securing his bags between his thighs. Lacking paddles, the nymphs push the raft forward, a gentle sway in the quiet waters. Water lilies float around them; tails and fins occasionally brush against Steve’s legs.

 Slowly, they move deeper into the Moss Woods, in the company of the serenely drifting nymphs. Steve runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, untangling any knots that he encounters.

 “As much as you were right about the cryptids and the nymphs,” he says, “I don’t think it’s practical to come this way often, or that we’d have any right to do so; even if it _would_ be a shortcut.”

 Bucky’s shoulders shake as he chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to strike a deal with the nymphs?”

 Steve scoffs. “What could we possibly offer them? And why would they accept it? I’d _personally_ advise them against it, dealing with our annoying comings and goings.”

 “Maybe they’d like the company,” Bucky says mildly.

 Steve shakes his head, even if Bucky can’t see it. “There’s bad choices, and then there’s _bad_ choices.”

 A while later, they reach the other side of the lake. The nymphs lodge the raft against the ground and Bucky climbs off first, holding out his hand to haul Steve forth. They make quick work of drying their legs and cleaning off the clinging mud; the nymphs lounge by, their tails languidly flicking in and out of the water.

 Bucky pulls on his boots and crouches at the moss-haired nymph’s eye line. “Thank you.”

 “Thank you,” Steve agrees, approaching closer as he adjusts his bags over his shoulder. “We owe you.”

 The nymph plops her tail with an amused chirp. She strokes Bucky’s hand and grins at him, her long sharp teeth biting into her lip.

 Bucky giggles and gives the nymph a nod. “Go get her.”

 The nymph grins wider and swoops down the lake.

 Bucky gets up and pats Steve’s shoulder. “Let’s go.” He laces his fingers between Steve’s. “We have a lot of walking still, but we should be safe inside the woods.”

 “We should come along the east side of the river, at the citadel’s right,” Steve says, his shoulder knocking against Bucky’s as they walk. “We’ll have to get to the bridge at the front gates to cross inside, which means open terrain for a while.”

 “But you _have_ guards overlooking the grounds,” Bucky says.

 Steve nods.

 “Then our odds should be mostly favorable,” Bucky remarks, tucking his hair behind his ear.

 “The odds on what?” Steve asks.

 “Everything,” Bucky replies with a small shrug.

 Steve raises his eyebrows. “They better.”

~*~

 Hydra attacks at late noon.

 Trees give way to more trees, bushes to bushes, until a break in the foliage reveals the coveted river, and beyond it the imposing city of Ironshield. It’s a sight for sore eyes if Bucky’s ever seen one after this lengthy trek. He makes a sound between a thankful sigh and a weary groan, and follows Steve’s lively steps out of the shelter of the forest.

 A “Holy shit!” overtakes the gurgling of the river. Muffled words meld into a chorus of hurried “Go, go, go!” from somewhere in the trees. Seizing Bucky’s arm, Steve drags him forward in a harried sprint. From the side, an enemy group charges. Seven or so men come at them with cudgels and swords.

 A stumpy spear shoots clumsily at Steve’s feet. Steve sidetracks to avoid it, crossing to Bucky’s left. “Hydra!” he shouts, breathless.

 Bucky pulls out a short sword and pushes on to match Steve’s pace, legs burning in his frenzied haste. He chances a quick look behind his shoulder, at the group that’s coming ever closer. This retreat is the opposite of Bucky’s plans for Hydra, but an outnumbered fight when the Stronghold and its reinforcements stand so near would be a folly. Bucky huffs an irritated pant and runs on.

 Red tendrils seemingly comprised of smoke slither along the grass between them, curling around their separate tracks. Steve and Bucky veer sideways to avoid them. Spears hurled towards them uselessly strike down on land, but hinder Steve and Bucky’s speed. Hydra gains ground and attacks.

 Steve draws his shield. Bucky spins, ducking in time to plant a punch to the gut of his roaring assailant. Metal clangs against metal, swords clash, and Bucky blocks stab-happy enemies with his arm. He loses his own sword, pulls out his knives. The red tendrils still float along, emerging from the hands of a long-haired woman. She stands apart from the fight, steely and poised as she moves her fingers and twists her wrists. Bucky growls, seeing in her the witch that defied nature and pulled him down from the sky. He doesn’t have the time to stew on it, whirling and rolling on his back for dear life at someone’s lunge. He kicks out at enemy feet, groaning as he receives a blow to the head in return. Slipping on the mushy ground of the river edge, he regains his footing and strikes with slashes. He ignores the stinging of an arm injury that makes him bleed, ignores the throbbing in his head. He focuses on the enemies at hand, keeping track of Steve’s progress by the intensity of his grunts.

 Enemy after enemy goes down, and Steve and Bucky keep fighting. The red tendrils that gently flow about grate on Bucky’s nerves, a warning that no matter what Steve and him do to the soldiers, they still are up against the witch. His fingers clench around the knife in his hand. He snarls, the sound low and guttural, his eyes narrowing in on her as his next target.

 He would have run after her, tackled her to the ground, tendrils be damned; he would have asked her why she chose to do it, whether it was her in charge, or someone else that Bucky should take quick care of. He would have done it, if a man up to now seemingly unconscious hadn’t sprung back up onto his feet to launch himself at Steve; if Steve had not retaliated by heaving the man –and by extend himself– into the rapid river.

 The man curses upon impact. Steve hooks his fingers on the river edge’s rocks. His foe fumbles to grasp Steve’s legs, but fails. The current pulls him under, drowning out his cries. Steve tries to pull himself out of the water, but barely holds on. The river beats madly at him, uncaring that he is an ally of the grounds.

 “No.” The muttered word leaves Bucky’s lips before he knows it. Shooting over a fallen enemy, he makes a mad dash toward Steve. He drops onto his knees, knife falling to his side as he clasps Steve’s forearm, eyes panicked as he tries to pull him out.

 “Go!” Steve shouts urgently, glancing over Bucky’s shoulder and looking even more scared than Bucky feels. Someone’s coming, but Bucky won’t let go.

 “No, not without _you_ ,” he asserts.

 He hauls Steve forward, fighting against the force of the currents. Panting, he pulls back his metal arm to build momentum, but a red tendril curls around his wrist and holds him still. He glances furiously behind his shoulder, glaring at the red smoke. The witch approaches, moving her hands in patterns, teeth gritted at the effort of her magic. Bucky heaves out a groan that shakes his lungs and yanks his arm forward, shoulder blade and back screaming at the pull. His metal hand lands on Steve’s shoulder and the woman cries out, not releasing but not quite controlling the tendril around Bucky’s wrist. Bucky braces his knees against the rocks and pulls Steve forward, grip loosening once Steve gets a grasp on the ground. He drops at Bucky’s side with a thud. Instantly, a second tendril comes to loop around Steve’s wrists; a third one loops around Bucky’s flesh hand.

 “Fucking _bind them_ ,” the woman grits out. “I can’t do _everything_ myself!”

 It turns out, she _can_ do everything herself; or at least long enough for Hydra members to forcibly manhandle Steve and Bucky into rope bindings. Steve’s shield and sword lie in the hands of an enemy with a profusely bleeding lip. Steve growls, ineffectually shoving against the man that ties him up.

 “Quick, into the forest,” a man with a gruff voice instructs, brusquely hauling Steve onto his feet. “They might’ve seen.”

  _They_ are the Ironshield Guard; Bucky hopes very, very hard that they have.

 “Lurking just outside the city, that’s bold, Brock,” Steve tells the man that is apparently an old acquaintance. He’s breathing hard, the skin above his eyebrow split and bloody. “Gotta give you that one.”

 “That was a wonderful coincidence, as luck would have it,” the man –Brock– says, pushing Steve towards the forest as others do the same with Bucky. “I guess I can take credit for the decision of lingering round here, but” –he grips Steve’s hair and tilts his head back, speaking into his ear– “fate just brought you into our wide open arms,” he says with a revolting grin.

 The unhappy company catches up to the witch. Clasping tightly at a crystal hanging from her neck, she falls in step at Brock’s side. “I don’t feel anything,” she says in a low voice. “There’s nothing to pull on.”

 “We’ll wait for nightfall,” Brock replies. “When the moon’s out, his power will be stronger.”

 Bucky doesn’t believe he possesses any power that they can take, Mother Moon or no Mother Moon. Still, he sends a silent plea to anyone who might listen that he truly doesn’t.

~*~

 Steve makes the utmost effort to remain submissive. He doesn’t know if he convinces anyone, least of all Brock, but no one seems to care either way. Thus, he sits quietly beside Bucky, with his hands tied behind his back as night descends, and decisively does not hurl himself on whichever Hydra goon happens to be the closest, succumbing to his need to fight back. He does not react when Hydra’s young witch bends over Bucky first once and then again; not when she stares searchingly –almost beseechingly– into Bucky’s eyes, not when she sends purportedly harmless tendrils of red inside his temples and his heart. Steve pretends to be compliant, while he discreetly tries to snap his ties in two and mentally devises a half-baked plan to take out all of Hydra and their witch at once. The Stronghold’s guards may or may not have noticed the fight, may or may not have realized what they witnessed, so Steve can’t count toward their aid. He only counts on Bucky, whose metal arm rubs against Steve every so often, as he, too, tries to wiggle out of his bonds. All in all, it takes a lot of effort to stay quiet, and Steve commends himself for accomplishing it to near perfection.

  “But why don’t we kill _him_?” a bulky man hisses at Brock, pointing sharply toward Steve.

 “We have to test the weapon on someone, he’s the perfect target,” Brock replies, pushing the man’s hand down.

 “I think,” Bucky says in a strained, low voice, “that if I yank the rope real hard, I can break it. But it’ll be dramatic and conspicuous–”

 “You should’ve run,” Steve scolds in an undertone.

 Bucky stops the contortions behind his back for long enough to roll his eyes. “It’s a little poetic, if you think about it,” he says when he settles down. “You saved me from a lake, I dragged you back from a river; we’ve come full circle.”

 “Delightful,” Steve replies dryly.

 Bucky opens his mouth to reply, but footsteps cut him off.

 The witch walks quickly to them, her crystal necklace swinging toward Bucky, drawn to him, as she bends on eye level. A red tendril shoots off her fingers and immerges into Bucky’s temple. “This isn’t personal,” she says in an accented voice. “Just collateral damage.”

 “Took you a while,” Bucky murmurs brashly.

 “It did.” The tendril moves to Bucky’s other temple. “Where _is_ it?” she mutters.

 “Who are you?” Steve asks.

 “No one of consequence,” the woman replies, her hand now hovering over Bucky’s heart as per her usual treatment. “Clearly.”

 “ _Wanda_!”

 The woman called Wanda clenches her jaw at Brock’s call. “I’m _trying_ ,” she responds without turning, her eyes hard as she curses under her breath in an unknown language.

 “You don’t seem to like them very much,” Bucky remarks.

 “I don’t have to like them,” Wanda replies. “I’m not _with_ them. We happen to have a common cause.”

 Bucky shivers as Wanda’s tendril inches off his chest.

 “Is it any different?” Steve asks. “Call yourself Hydra, or don’t; the end’s the same– murders unless you’re guaranteed compliance, a compliance solely dependent on the whims of Hydra.”

 Wanda rounds in on him, her eyes ablaze with anger. “We will only kill the Avengers,” she hisses, voice trembling under the weight of her emotions. “Those that deserve it. I’ll hurt no one else. I sacrificed my soul to get _him_ ” –she points at Bucky– “down here to bring _justice_ to what people misconstrue as just. I won’t allow any more innocent killings.”

 Steve lowers his eyebrows, his forehead wrinkling in a scowl. “I don’t know what your own motives are, Wanda, but Hydra won’t stop with the Avengers. It’s going to get much worse than that.”

 Wanda breathes out a frustrated sigh, clutching her fingers around her crystal to stop its constant sway towards Bucky. “I’m not saying their reasons are noble,” she snaps, “but they align with mine. You let my brother die, Captain, along with helpless people, while you saved a crowd that did not deserve it. How’s that for noble?” She swallows, her features hardening at Steve’s blank look. “I once lived in Sokovia.”

 Steve squares his shoulders at the offhand explanation. “Sokovia,” he echoes, startled.

 “What happened?” Bucky asks, the question up for anyone to grab.

 “It was years ago, when the Avengers were newly assembled,” Steve says.

 “Funnily enough, it’s not just something you forget,” Wanda remarks, her voice dripping venom.

 “Sokovia’s a small neighboring country,” Steve tells Bucky, though this he probably already knows. “A small town right by the border was under an attack from bandits. Its people, untrained farmers, couldn’t fight back. Some sought refuge in their High Lord’s chambers.”

 “The rest were left to perish under siege and fire,” Wanda adds. “We called the Avengers.”

 “But we arrived too late,” Steve says, the memories of the burning bodies and the charred houses unmarred, intact and vivid despite the long passage of time. “We only managed to rescue a small handful of Sokovians, mostly those that were with the High Lord at the time.”

 “We weren’t among the select few,” Wanda says in contempt. “We weren’t protected by the High Lord, we were just the scum that tended to his land and put food on his table, and we toiled, and starved, but when _they_ came…” She shakes her head. “When _they_ came, the High Lord left us to die, cannon fodder, and you, the so-called protectors, left us to die too. You saved the High Lord and his people, but you abandoned _us_. You _left_ ,” she stresses in a quiver. “The elite were safe. You should have come for us.”

 “They were trapped inside a building in a town that was burning,” Steve says sharply. “They weren’t _safe_.”

 “But did they deserve to live more than us?” Wanda asks.

 Steve blinks, shaking his head. “I’m not the one to decide that, none of us are. We save as many people as we can. Sometimes that doesn’t mean everyone; it’s still better than saving none. I’m sorry it had to be your brother,” he says earnestly, “but I’m not sorry for the people that got to live.”

 “You should be seeking your revenge from the people that attacked you in the first place,” Bucky remarks quietly.

 “We took care of them,” Steve assures. “Regardless” –he turns to Wanda, dropping his voice– “this isn’t what Hydra wants, you must know that. They won’t stop when _you_ want them to stop.”

 Wanda flinches; it’s a minute motion, but Steve catches it all the same.

 “They’ve _done this_ before,” he ploughs on, tone confident in hopes of getting through to Wanda. “Nothing’s changed. It’s still the same people, the same goals.”

 “They don’t really present themselves as changed,” Bucky points out calmly.

 “You must have known, back then,” Steve insists, eyes locked on Wanda’s. “You must have heard the stories, if not lived them–”

 “ _What’s taking so long?_ ”

 Wanda winces at Brock’s voice. She stands up straight, turning to the approaching man. “I don’t know that there is more that I can do,” she says. “There’s nothing. He feels mortal.”

 Brock steps aside and takes a look at Bucky. Bucky stares back at him in irked defiance. Threads of his customary faint shimmer peek out in places, fading traces of distant moonbeams.

 “But he _twinkles_ ,” Brock protests; Bucky grimaces at his choice of word.

 Wanda shrugs. “Remnants of stardust?”

 “But your crystal found him!” Brock gripes. “We wouldn’t even know that he’s the star if that thing hadn’t started flapping back and forth like it was possessed!”

 “The crystal scries for the person, not the starlight,” Wanda replies evenly.

 “Well–” Brock runs his hand through his hair roughly. “Well, how did this _happen_?”

 “I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” Wanda snaps. “I was with you.”

 “So _now_ what do we do?” Brock demands. At Wanda’s lack of answer, he decides, “Let’s carve his heart out, collect his blood maybe. There must be traces of his so-called power somewhere.”

 Bucky bristles, lips pinching sourly. Steve glances at him, then turns his gaze at the tiny committee, discreetly trying to pry his hands free again.

 “What exactly do you suggest we do with a heart?” Wanda snaps. “Pump it till it leaks stardust?”

 Bucky lets out a cough, features twisted in an expression vaguely nauseated.

 “Maybe!” Brock retorts in a growl. “All I know is, I have eight men here carrying that damn mould around like mules to find the heart of the dying fucking star, and a whole posse back at the base waiting for that damn weapon that’ll give us the advantage over _everything_ , over even _Mjolnir_ , and we’re going to forge it. I don’t care how; it’s getting done.”

 “Sounds promising,” Bucky says stiffly.

 Brock shoots him a glare. “You,” he mutters, “annoy me very, _very_ much.”

 “What does Mjolnir have to do with the Avengers?” Wanda asks.

 Brock clicks his tongue dismissively. “Asgard is an ally of the Stronghold.”

 “But we have no grudge against them,” Wanda reminds tautly.

 “Sweetheart, they’ll come for us,” Brock replies without much concern, “once we rid of the Avengers.”

 “A lot of people will come for us, a lot of them _support_ the Avengers,” Wanda says. “We can’t fight them all, they’re not really enemies.”

 “Not yet,” Brock says. “You think we’re isolated, unaffected by others?” He shifts, adjusting the scabbard that falls against his leg. “This land is a mess. People need ruling, order in their chaos. Those who resist will be captured or perish in the cleansing, simple as that. Then all will be quiet under our ruling.”

 Wanda’s eyes flicker toward Steve; trepidation and doubt creep in her gaze. “And who decides that?” she asks. “Who deserves the cleansing?”

 “We decide,” Brock replies with a smirk. “Lucky us.”

 Wanda nods, toying with her necklace. “Bring him along,” she says, voice cracking a little as she nods at Bucky. “Let’s see what we can get.”

 Brock grabs Bucky’s arm and hauls him upwards, kicking his foot to get him moving.

 Steve springs up, a low growl escaping from his throat. Hydra isn’t going to win this one without a fight, and Steve steels himself to give one as good as he has, even with his hands tied up behind his back and against a witch who shoots magic tendrils. So quickly that it’s almost imperceptible, Bucky flashes him a warning look and gingerly pushes his wrists against the ropes that bind him. Steve catches the motion and halters in his wrath, taking the hint that Bucky’s handling it. Two men shove him to the ground. Steve grits his teeth and succumbs to the push, his knees colliding with the hard earth with a ferocity that makes him grunt.

 Brock leads Bucky close to the converged Hydra goons. His boot comes hard up against the back of Bucky’s leg, the impetus of it jolting Bucky to his knees. “Hold him.”

 Two men clasp Bucky’s shoulders and keep him still, sentinels to ensure he won’t slither away. Wanda accepts a knife from Brock. She weighs it against her palms, the metal glinting in the cold moonlight. Steve clenches his jaw tight and swallows around the erratic drumming in his heart. He wriggles, trying to free his hands, caution all but thrown to the wind now that everyone’s attention is turned to Bucky’s imminent sacrifice.

 Wanda sets her hand on Bucky’s forehead, her lips curled in an inscrutable grimace. She tilts his head back to expose his neck. Brock grins, eyes narrowing in grim anticipation. Everything living, the men, the trees, the grass, seem to hold a collective breath as Wanda gazes searchingly in Bucky’s eyes.

 “Hold tight,” Brock orders his two sentinels.

 “Hold up,” a low voice whispers at Steve’s back.

 Steve blinks, willing his features into an expression mostly neutral. Sharp tips dig on his skin as the owner of the voice cuts Steve’s ties.

 “I’ll go for their legs,” the voice mutters. “You get the star.”

 The ropes loosen; Steve shakes his hands free, glancing behind his shoulder to glimpse the unexpected aid. A snout appears by his thigh, teeth bared and menacing. Steve shifts, eyebrows shooting up against his better judgement. The owner of the snout, a furry animal, is dressed in human clothes and is armed with an unnerving assortment of weapons. Steve’s brain lights up in recognition, matching the creature to Bucky’s and Thor’s talking raccoon.

  “Wait for it…” the raccoon mutters.

 “Let’s get it over with,” Brock snarls.

 Wanda’s knuckles turn white under the force of her tight grip; her crystal swings with abandon as it points repeatedly at Bucky. She takes a steadying breath and threads her free hand through Bucky’s hair, keeping his head in place.

 The raccoon shifts on his short legs. “Wai–”

 Steve does not wait. He leaps onto his feet with a growl, hands trembling in his need to settle this once and for all.

 Chaos erupts at once. Wanda, in an apparent change of heart, spins and thrusts the knife toward Brock’s chest. Brock yanks himself sideways as though he’s foreseen it; the weapon misses its target and grazes off his shoulder harmlessly. The little raccoon warrior screams out a battle cry and charges against all and sundry, his sword slashing shins and stabbing feet to the ground. Bucky wrenches his hands against the ties. He snaps the rope in two, metal arm smashing against a sentinel’s jaw as he does so. Steve lunges against Bucky’s other sentinel and twists his elbow around his back until he screams.

 Smoke tendrils coil around Steve’s feet and circle Bucky, this time not in an attack but in protection. They twist around the opposition’s legs and arms, slowing their movements as Bucky goes against them carrying stolen knives.

 “How the hell are you here?” Bucky yells at the raccoon, spitting long strands of hair out of his mouth and spinning to avoid a punch.

 “Fucking Groot – got – fucking – worried,” the raccoon grits out. He trips his current enemy down to the ground. “Fucking guilt-tripped me into coming,” he elaborates as he smashes into the man’s solar plexus, “since I’m fast and he isn’t. Fucking saved the lot of you, you useless idiots.”

 Steve smirks and dashes to his shield. He hurls it at the Hydra goon that’s closest, the hit knocking him out in mere seconds. Brock howls in anger, the sound desperate. He charges towards Steve with a sword pointed against him in a battle that feels rehashed from years ago, one which Steve wants to wrap up into a final closure.

 Brock’s fury is his eventual downfall. His thrusts are haphazard and erratic, and Steve counters with cold self-control. He disarms Brock with an aptly calculated roll and kick, and pushes them on to even ground in hand-to-hand combat. A final blow to Brock’s torso lands him on the ground and Steve crouches over him, striking his fists against Brock’s cheeks and jaw. He slows and stops when Brock doesn’t fight back anymore, when instead Brock grins up at Steve with blood dripping liberally down his mouth.

 “So kill me,” Brock wheezes.

 Steve huffs out a breath. “Not doing that.” He props his knee against Brock’s chest, pushing him sharply against the ground. “I’m going to need some inside information.”

 Brock gurgles out a laugh. “You’re never going to–”

 Steve lands a head blow that renders Brock unconscious. “Not making small talk either,” he mutters, getting to his feet.

 “There’s rope in that sack,” Wanda tells Bucky as she restrains two men with her red tendrils.

 The raccoon is on top of yet another foe that lies on the ground, under threat of having his throat slashed. Bucky, cheek and arm cut and bleeding but otherwise unscathed, rummages inside the indicated sack.

 Wanda turns to Steve, her eyes hard as she assesses him. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

 Steve nods, bringing his hands to his waist as he scouts the scene. He turns to the raccoon and nods again, swallowing audibly through his dry throat. “Thanks.”

 “Yeah, yeah,” the raccoon mutters.

 Steve walks to Hydra’s stash of bags and crouches next to Bucky, just as Bucky successfully unearths the rope. He flashes Steve a fleeting half-smile and curls his fingers around Steve’s knee. Steve heaves out a trembling breath, heart resettling in his chest from this brief moment of comfort.

 Bucky digs his teeth in his lower lip, eyes affectionate and crinkling with words he doesn’t say. A beat of silence later, he shakes his head and adjusts his grip on the rope.

 Steve clears his throat, dropping his eyes to the bags. “Right.”

 “I should…” Bucky squeezes Steve’s knee and walks off, huffing at the raccoon’s snippy “About time.”

 Steve skims through the baggage until he finds what he’s looking for. The mold for the weapon that was to be forged from a dying star’s heart –two square halves that were to build an axe– lays in a bag, complete with what was destined to become the handle. Steve slowly places the pieces back inside the bag and heaves it up with him. He vows to wait for Tony to study them, just in case, then smash them and sacrifice them to the currents of the river.

 This is how the Avengers find them, when they charge in at full speed, weapons at the ready from all sides. Sam comes to an abrupt halt, as does Natasha. They lower their weapons and stare, bewildered and unblinking. Bucky barely spares them a glance before he resumes tying up people. Wanda recoils, stepping closer to the raccoon as she sizes up the Avengers. Tony, surprisingly having left the citadel, approaches warily and Clint, walking by his side, grins, loosening his grip around his bow and arrow.

 Tony hums, taking in the defeated Hydra opposition. “A star” –he points at Bucky– “a witch” –he looks at Wanda– “and a raccoon that’s armed to fight. Well.” He shrugs and walks to Steve, pulling him into a side hug. “Never let it be said that you don’t keep interesting company.”

~*~

 Wanda does not need to be in the infirmary of Ironshield. She does not need to be in any infirmary at all, least of all in one where she is in the company of the Avengers’ Captain and Tony Stark, the mastermind behind the Stronghold’s greatest inventions. She doesn’t need medical attention from their healer, Rhodes, and certainly doesn’t deserve to be looked at with anything less than resentment from the star that is apparently named Bucky. Yet here she is, one leg folded under the other and shawl falling loosely off her shoulders as she fidgets, merely because the Avengers insisted that she should be looked at; merely because Bucky and the Captain firmly stressed that, in the end, she’d done what was right.

 She had, but she doesn’t see herself as an ally of the Avengers. She doesn’t necessarily despise them any less, but there is some irrefutable truth to their Captain’s points, some human fault to what she sees as negligence. As luck and her own maybe self-imposed ignorance would have it, Hydra’s monstrosities were not actually part of the past, even if her own grief inclined her to believe so.

 “You don’t look like a star,” Tony remarks as he invades Bucky’s personal space.

 “And you don’t look like a genius,” Bucky retorts dryly.

 Tony makes an offended noise and looks at the Captain, who’s trying to hide his amusement behind his palm. Rhodes forgoes such discretion and barks out a laugh.

 “That’s the thanks I get for trying to help,” Tony mumbles.

 “You’re not helping, you’re staring,” Bucky points out.

 “I was going to give you chainmail, star boy! Some of my finest!” Tony declares, offended. “Because I’m _generous_.”

 Wanda blinks slowly, not quite certain what she is doing here, or what she should be doing next. It’s possible she’ll end up in prison, along with the Hydra members who are detained for interrogation. It’s possible she’ll be allowed to go free. She doesn’t know how to handle either.

 She catches Bucky’s eye and holds his gaze as Tony babbles nonsense at the Captain and Rhodes.

 “I’m sorry,” she says.

 Bucky drags his teeth over his lips for a long moment, considering his words. “Me too,” he replies quietly. “I hope–” He stops, swallows with a small wince. “That you can find peace. Eventually.”

 “And so, in conclusion, screw you too,” Tony tells the Captain, but with no real bite, and the Captain’s grinning. “Where’s the little creature? The raccoon?”

 “Pretty sure he’s still debating the merits of going for the legs with Clint,” the Captain replies.

 “Right.” Tony whirls, levelling his intensity at Wanda. “You, what do we do with you?”

 “What do you want to do with me?” Wanda asks evenly.

 “Me, personally, I think we could definitely use a witch in our midst, very useful skillset, but I don’t know if we can trust you,” Tony says, his words tumbling out so fast that they barely register. “People do horrible things, but sometimes we learn and we do better. I guess this goes both ways, since I’m told you might honest-to-gods hate us, which is fine, I get it, I hate us too sometimes– but know this,” he stresses, now serious. “Not one of us would willingly let any creature die if there were any other way.” He shrugs, mouth curled in resignation. “It’s who we are, we’re noble and nice like that–”

 “Tony,” the Captain warns, with what sounds like familiar exasperation.

 “So you can keep hating, blame us if it makes you feel better,” Tony continues, undeterred. “But know we did the best we could. And the best we can? It’s never perfect. To my great chagrin,” he adds in a lighter tone, allowing for a small smile.

 “A shared enemy doesn’t make us friends,” Wanda points out, although she feels like she’s getting the good end of the stick on this one.

 “Well, no, of course not,” Tony says. “But maybe our shining personalities will lure you in.”

 “All right, that’s enough.” Rhodes claps a halting hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Let them have some space.”

 “Fine,” Tony begrudgingly agrees, letting Rhodes steer him out of the room. “We got a win on Hydra, huge one too, festivities will begin in five!” he calls behind his back, raising a pointed finger. “Or ten! Depends how fast I can get to the fireworks! Do you think red, or…” His voice fades to mumbling and then silence as he and Rhodes depart down the corridor.

 The Captain rests his hands on his hips and shares a small smirk with Bucky. “You’re free to go at any point,” he tells Wanda, “or free to stay.”

 “But I’m still not your ally,” Wanda insists.

 The Captain shrugs. “Not an enemy either; that’s good enough. So until further notice…”

 He holds out his hand at Bucky and Bucky takes it, hopping to his feet with an easy grin.

 Wanda watches them as they go, listens to their footsteps echoing until they fade, until she’s all alone in the room, possibly in the entire building; possibly in her entire life. She lets out a shuddering breath, dragging her clammy palms down her thighs.

 Not an ally, yet not an enemy either. She can live with that, at least for now.

 She tilts her head toward the window behind her, looking over the tall city buildings that give way to the dark skies beyond. The stars, countless tiny, glimmering gems, shine on, oblivious or despite the damage Wanda has inflicted. It’s both humbling and bizarrely soothing, and Wanda basks into the mix of her emotions, allowing herself some time to think.

 After about five or ten minutes, the fireworks begin.

~*~

 Red and gold sparks light up the sky, the explosions bathing the city in unexpected color. Birds shoot out of their nests with squawking chirrups, alarmed by the booming noise. Heads peek out of windows and doorsteps; people still on the streets stop on their tracks to marvel at the spectacle.

 Bucky lets out a giggle, relief and happiness seeking release in a warm sound that bubbles in his chest and spills out. Steve grins at him. He laces their fingers together and pulls Bucky out onto the balcony of the building housing the infirmary, pushing him against the balustrade that overlooks the city. He loops his arms around Bucky’s waist, holding him close. Steve’s eyes shine as he gazes at the fireworks that burst, burn and fizzle, and Bucky drinks him in, relishing in the prospect of a future, of an ‘after’ that extends beyond the short-sighted Hydra endgame he awaited before.

 “Tony really wasn't kidding about fireworks, huh?” he remarks, turning to the colorful display that splits the night.

 “We celebrate everything,” Steve says. “There’s a feast about every other week. If there isn’t reason for one, someone just makes up something.” He nestles his cheek against Bucky’s hair. “Makes for good morale.”

 Bucky looks out at the city, so different than the small village of Asgard that he’s left. Cobbled wide streets give ways to alleys, rows and rows of streets give way to squares, taverns, carts, shops. It’s buzzing, alive like a beating heart, bafflingly vast and oddly welcoming at once, and Bucky embraces it. His heart and soul settle at ease by the time the fanfare dies out and gives way to familiar quietness.

 Steve draws back a little, studying Bucky’s face. “Much bigger than the village,” he says.

 “Quite the understatement, but yes,” Bucky agrees with a smirk.

  “Now what?” Steve asks, gingerly tucking Bucky’s hair behind his ear.

 Bucky lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Honestly, I’m hungry.”

 Steve, startled, laughs aloud. “Gods,” he murmurs. “Fine, yes. I was asking about your plans.”

 “My plans?” Bucky echoes, assuming a grimace of naive disbelief. “I was planning to eat and then seduce you. In your house.” He looks out at the city, his nose crinkled. “In the Tower, you’ve said. Right?” He points to the tallest building he can spot, guessing on height alone that it is the much talked of Avengers Tower. “That one?”

 “I don’t know if you’re messing with me,” Steve says with a self-deprecating smile. “Are you going back to Asgard?”

 “Aren’t we going after the rest of Hydra?” Bucky deflects, mustering up the courage to own up to his _plans_. “Depending how the interrogations go?”

 Steve raises his eyebrows, his amusement mingling with doubt.

 “They have the wrong intentions, and I have the skills. Valkyrie would have been proud,” Bucky asserts.

 “Right,” Steve says with a nod. “I’ll be sure to confirm everything you tell her. We might be seeing them soon,” he adds. “Tony sent out a letter with what took place.” He cocks his head, releasing Bucky and detaching himself from the balustrade to prop his elbow on the rail. “If you want to come with, naturally.”

 “Naturally,” Bucky murmurs. He puffs out a breath, lips quirking in a rueful smile. “I don’t want to go back. I want to _come with_ ,” he clarifies, “but I don’t want to stay.”

 Steve presses his mouth in a line. He takes Bucky’s hand in his and rests a soft peck on silver fingertips. “Couldn’t make it into a home?”

 Bucky shakes his head dismissively. “You’re home. I want to be where you are.” He runs his tongue over his lower lip, exhilarated at the prospect, heart fluttering with trepidation at the commitment that he’s asking of Steve. “If you want that.”

 Steve’s eyes sparkle in an instant, the dawning of a new sun amidst the night, the crinkles around their edges sunbeams that light up the balcony. His face cracks into an open grin, relieved and eager. “Yes,” he says, his fingers twisting into Bucky’s hair. He tips his forehead against Bucky’s own and breathes, “Please, yes,” unable to keep his voice from quivering.

 Bucky lets out a humming chuckle, cupping Steve’s scruffy cheek to draw him close. Lips meet chapped lips, steady and unsteadying, in a kiss that spreads warmth from Bucky’s tongue to every inch of his body. “Fuck distance,” he mumbles against Steve’s mouth.

 Steve huffs out a laugh, his breath hot on Bucky’s skin. “Fuck distance.”

 Bucky pulls back and idly leans against the balustrade, lips quirked and heart light and peaceful. “Tell me a story,” he asks. “Bridge the new and the old.”

 “A hearty welcome to the Stronghold?” Steve plays along.

 Bucky crosses one foot over the other, getting comfortable. “Mm hm.”

 Steve smirks abashedly, running a hand over his hair. “Once there lived a snarky star…”

 Bucky raises his eyebrows.

 “That on one fateful night fell down from the sky…” Steve continues cheekily.

 “No,” Bucky snarks flatly.

 “But I assure you…” Steve grins, entwining Bucky’s fingers into his. “There’s a happy ending.”


End file.
